


Skein

by VR_Trakowski



Category: Prey
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 71,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s about two people who save each other,” said Thomas.</p><p>“From what?” said Tina.</p><p>“Death, and life,” said Thomas.</p><p><i>Tam Lin</i>, <a href="http://pddb.demesne.com/">Pamela Dean</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted (after some years) with additional scenes written for the hard copy version. If you insist on a soundtrack, October Project's "Return to Me" will do as well as anything.
> 
> Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended. All other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first.

He had been alone in the dark for so long.

It wasn't just the dark, of course, but everything else as well; he knew that. The chill, his acid thirst, the inexorable captivity; a cage so small he could not even stand upright, icy bars of hardened steel. But the screaming fear at the bottom of his stomach was not for himself, but for Sloan. Had they taken her too, in another vehicle? Was she, even now, being tormented in some other room, helpless before the bland figures that came and went, and commented on his suffering in detached tones? Or had they just shot her and left her to die in the street?

He was able to put off that last image when it came, _red hair soaking a darker red against the asphalt, arms limp and warm eyes turned vacant to the sky,_ with the reminder that they had drugged Ed the same way they had drugged him. They had come to capture, not kill.

But he still didn't know. He couldn't sense her, couldn't sense anyone he knew--not Sloan, and not the others he had learned, Ed and Attwood and even Ray Peterson. There were no others like himself about, unless they were masking, but he didn't think they could. Not for so long. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there anymore.

Somewhere under his fear for Sloan was worry for the others as well--even, reluctantly, Attwood. This was definitely government work, but he had the feeling that their enigmatic boss had himself been tricked. Attwood would do whatever it took to ensure the survival of _Homo sapiens_ \--but why this? It made no sense, would be of no use to the scientist. Sometimes he had the feeling that he was at the nonexistent mercy of some malevolent, childlike mind, that actually enjoyed poking sticks through the bars of his cage, and that cloaked its amusement in a shroud of science.

Then he would stop that line of thought, and concentrate on other things. Pain wasn't as much of a problem as his captors obviously thought it would be. He had endured many things in his training. But the disorientation, combined with his weakened body, was beginning to take its toll on his mind. Ed's experimental serum had left him drained and shaky, though he had managed to hide the worst of the symptoms from Sloan. Nothing that a day or so of rest wouldn't fix. Only he hadn't gotten the rest.

When it got really bad, during the dark times, he would curl around himself to conserve warmth, the bare skin of his back rippling with shivers, and remember. He might not have much access to memories of his further past, but more recently his training stood him in good stead. What he did remember was sharp and clear. Alone in the absolute blackness, he would squeeze his eyes shut and call the images up.

Sloan, first and always. The warmth of her smile, her changeable eyes; the smell of her hair, the fine velvet of the nape of her neck. Her mischievous laugh when she told him that ridiculous joke. Exhausted, sleeping with her head in his lap while they waited to see if Ed would recover from his deadly fever. Fitting her hand to his cheek to comfort him after he had failed with young Kevin. The shocking rush of relief he'd felt when she had found him in the basement of his childhood house, and the absolute horror on her face for what had been done to him. The sweet, desperate taste of her, her kiss as much an admission of trust as any of her words.

And when the hurt of her missing grew too much, he would turn to other, less potent memories. The strong grip of Attwood's handshake when he had met the scientist at the pillar--another sign of trust, albeit limited. Sharing a meal--and a peace-making--with Ed, and debating the merits of their favorite places for Chinese take-out. The grudging, but real, smile on Ray's face after the mix-up at the morgue. The hidden worry in Ed's eyes, that he could nonetheless sense like a shout across a room, when he rolled up his sleeve so the scientist could inject him with the experimental serum.

He must be back to 1.6 by now. Once again a _Homo dominant_. And his captors, who had never expected anything else, had outfitted his cage with a lock he could not break. Infuriating, to be so completely held by a simple padlock, but he had torn at it in the dark until his fingers were bloody, to no avail--and not at all sure that they weren't observing him anyway, and laughing.

He tried not to remember the changes. Those memories hurt too, and they did not feed him the way thoughts of Sloan did. But once or twice he slipped into a trance, fighting sleep, and drifted for a while on the edge of dreams. Everything had been slightly fuzzy, as though he had been a little drunk, but it had been so warm. So many of the knots inside him had loosened, just for a little while, as he drank in the sounds and sights and scents around him without having to analyze each one for useful data. He had been able to smile, even laugh, without caution, without hesitancy, and for a time he had been able to match Sloan's open heart, her capacity for fun. It had hurt to feel it slipping away, to feel the hyper-alertness settling back over him, the inhibitions weighing him down. Sloan had promised him that her feelings for him would never change, and he believed her. But it had been so good to be like her.

One thing he had kept, though. He still had some understanding of the emotions that burned through him, that twisted his gut, that made his eyes prickle and his lips turn up at the same time. There was knowledge gained.

* * *

The lump in her throat never seemed to go away, no matter how many times she swallowed. The endless cups of tea she never got around to finishing could not soothe it, it never shrunk to nothing when she took her fitful naps. Sloan knew exactly what it was: fear. Endless, hopeless, stomach-churning fear.

When she had returned from the now-forbidden lab, fuming and alarmed, she had screeched to a halt behind an altercation. Tom was being bundled into a van by gun-toting, black-clad men. It took quite a few of them to get him in the vehicle, and as she found out later, he had been heavily drugged. But as soon as he saw her, as soon as his eyes had met hers, she had recognized that adamantine determination in them. His gaze had never broken from hers as he fought to stay--fought to stay with _her_.

But before she could reach him, the men had managed to get him inside, and the van fled out of sight. She felt as though her heart had been torn from her body. Everything in her had screamed to follow, but as she ran, another car had peeled away, nearly striking her. And through its window she had glimpsed Walter Attwood's impossible boss, her face expressionless as always, and she knew who was responsible for kidnapping Tom.

It was no good pursuing them, she discovered when she returned to her car. Someone had taken a moment to slash two of her tires behind her back, just in case she might have caught up to them. Sick, dazed, she stumbled into her apartment, to find the door half off its hinges and Ed out cold on the floor.

She was almost grateful for the distraction. Worry about Ed overrode, at least temporarily, some of the wrenching pain. As it was, her friend was deeply unconscious, but all right. Sloan covered him with a quilt and tucked a pillow under his head, half automatically, while her mind raced. Quick calls to both Ray and Walter brought back messages that they were outside of the ranges of their cell phones--surprising, given Attwood's phone, at least. She tried Ray's home, but got only the family answering machine.

Her mind tumbled helplessly, furiously, over questions and ideas--useless, all of them. Sloan had no idea at all where they might have taken Tom, nor would she have any way to break him out even if she did know. There was nothing she could do but wait--for Ed to wake, for Walter or Ray to call--and that was the worst. What was happening to Tom? What would they do to him?

Sloan managed to calm herself after her first burst of angry, terrified tears with the thought that if the government had wanted Tom dead, they could have killed him on the spot. Obviously, he was worth something alive, to somebody. But how long would they keep him alive? She, as would be any other scientist, was naturally curious about the differences between humans and the new species. Other scientists, however, had not had the opportunities that she and Ed and Walter had gotten to examine corpses of _Homo dominant_. Was that why he had been kidnapped? Sloan shuddered over visions of Tom stretched out, lifeless, as some government scientist took him apart. She already knew what he would look like dead, thanks to his deceased brother, and her imagination readily supplied her with the image.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. This wasn't helping. She could do nothing for Tom right now. Perhaps she could do something for her poor front door. This was the second time in a month that someone had broken it open, and the government had been harder on it than Tom had been when he came after Kevin. When he came for her.

She managed to prop it shut with a chair under the handle and reminded herself distractedly to call the supervisor in the morning. And then she collapsed onto one of the kitchen stools, laid her head on the counter, and cried again.

In the hours it took for Ed to wake, Sloan had time to marvel over Tom's strength at fighting off a similar dose for as long as he had. There was another worry--he was still in the process of reverting from the _Homo sapiens_ serum. Had he stabilized? Was he all right? Or had the crippling fever returned? She kept recalling the look in his eyes when he insisted on a booster dose of the serum, when he told her that she was worth the risk of the experiment.

Ed, when he did wake up, could give her little comfort. He told her what had happened, what little he had seen before the narcotic took effect. The men had been so fast that even Tom had had no time to react.

Ed sat drooping on the loveseat, nursing a splitting headache, and watched Sloan pace. He was nauseated from the drug, and shaken by what had happened, and no little worried over Tom himself. The quiet, grey-eyed man had gotten Sloan into so much danger, which was enough reason for Ed to resent him--though he had to admit that Tom also protected Sloan with an unmatchable ferocity. He wasn't jealous of Tom, at least not in the standard way--Sloan fell into the "slightly pesky younger sister" category as well as the "best friend" slot. Yet it hurt a little to see Sloan turn to Tom instead of him. Still, Ed's reservations had slowly worn down, and it surprised him to realize how much Tom had become a friend.

Now he too wondered how Tom was. The experiment that Tom had talked him into was not yet finished--the last reading Ed had gotten from Tom's blood placed him at a 1.4 percent DNA differential, not yet back to his natural 1.6 percent. He seemed to be progressing well, but Ed couldn't be sure--the whole experiment was so unorthodox. He was still mentally kicking himself for allowing Tom to take the shot before the monkey trial was through, though it had appeared to turn out all right for Tom if not for Philip Macaque. _Idiot_ , he thought. _You went against all scientific_ _procedure, and Tom may still pay for it with his life..._

"You know," he said suddenly, "I'm surprised that Tom didn't sense them coming."

Sloan paused and turned toward him. "The serum was probably interfering with his...evolved...senses."

"Yeah, but still." Ed frowned. "I can understand that the emotional bit would be difficult, but I wonder about the prolepsis."

"The what?"

"His prolepsis." Ed looked up to see Sloan's confused expression. "Didn't he ever tell you about it?"

Sloan shook her head, running her hands through her hair and wincing at the tangles. "We seemed to have missed that one." She sighed. "Tom does have a different perspective on what could be important."

Ed looked judicious. "Maybe he just didn't want to scare you. The idea creeped me out a bit."

Sloan leaned on the counter. "Tell me about it."

* * *

 

It had been the middle of the night, on the long flight back from Alaska. Sloan was curled up asleep in one of the seats, exhausted from the past few days, and Ed opened his eyes to see Tom carefully tucking a blanket around her. Attwood sat near the cockpit, muttering into a tape recorder and scribbling on a pad of paper.

Ed cleared his throat. The Spanish influenza had left him still a little feverish and too weak to stand, but he was bored with lying still. Tom looked up at the sound, and made his way back to the gurney and equipment that held the doctor.

"How're you feeling?" Tom asked quietly, his gaze steady, and Ed wondered briefly if he was motivated by actual concern or if he was practicing human small talk. _Maybe both._

"Better." He fiddled with the IV line running into his arm. "I'm really tired of this, though."

Tom arched a brow. "You want something to drink?"

"Is there any orange juice left?"

Tom turned away to rummage in the wet bar--Ed had to wonder just where Walter got equipment like the rather luxurious plane--and came up with a can, which he opened before giving to Ed. The juice stung Ed's sore throat but tasted wonderful.

Tom sat down near the gurney, which Ed took as a sign of his willingness to talk for a while. "So, what really happened out there?"

"Sloan didn't tell you?"

Ed shook his head. "Just a little. I haven't really been up to listening much."

Tom hesitated, then sighed, and Ed suddenly realized that the whole episode could be difficult for the enigmatic man to deal with. "Not if you don't want to," he said hastily, a little surprised at himself for caring.

Tom blinked. "No, it's okay. It's--"

The plane lurched, caught in a sudden downdraft, and Ed lost his grip on the can of juice as he clutched at the sides of the gurney. Tom, on the other hand, did not seem alarmed--and he reached out and caught the can before it fell more than a foot. Then the plane steadied out, and Tom handed the can back to Ed, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that Sloan had not awakened.

Ed loosened his grip on the bar and took the can. "That was...you have amazing reflexes."

Tom looked back. He seemed to think a long moment, then spoke. "It's not just reflexes."

Ed took another gulp of juice and raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.

Tom looked down at his hands. "It's true that our reactions are faster than humans', but there's something else too. Have you ever heard of prolepsis?"

Ed frowned, thinking. "Isn't that another word for precognition?"

"Close enough." Tom sat back in his chair. "It's a sense that is not unknown in humans, but science has regarded it as superstition, as myth. It's stronger in us."

"Wait a minute. You mean you can predict the future?" Ed asked, incredulous.

Tom shook his head. "Only a second or two at most, and not always. For most of us, that is. The science involved is over my head--quantum physics, string theory--it's not my field. But what I was taught is that we can sometimes sense things just before they happen. I heard someone describe it as feeling vibrations on the sidereal strings." He glanced at Ed to see if the doctor was following, and Ed nodded for him to continue.

"Humans have the same sense but much less developed. In fact, I think that we--the new species--make better use of it because our brains process things faster. Humans have deja vu all the time, but they can't usually _think_ fast enough to take advantage of the feeling."

"So we don't realize we've sensed it until the actual event occurs?"

Tom looked approving. "Exactly. As I said, most of us can only feel a few seconds at most into the future. I felt that the plane was going to hit the air pocket before it actually did, so I was able to brace myself. Actually...I didn't really think about it, I just did it. It's almost like instinct."

Ed whistled soundlessly. "Yeah, I can see how that would be an advantage, all right. No wonder you guys are so fast. But it doesn't happen all the time, does it?"

"No. We can't tell when it will work, either, it's not under our control."

"How about this?" Ed held up the can. "Did you sense I was going to drop it?"

Tom shook his head, a small smile creeping across his face. "No. That was reflex."

Ed grinned back, oddly pleased at that show of relaxation. This man was one of the most tense people he'd ever met--not that he didn't have reason. "I guess it's like the human sense, in that not everybody has it?"

"I don't know." The smile faded. "It's not something we talk about much, any more than you talk about smelling or hearing. But..."

He trailed off, looking thoughtful, and Ed held his peace. If Tom was in the mood to reveal more about his species, Ed didn't want to jar him out of it. Finally Tom's eyes focused back on Ed, and the scientist shivered a bit under the intense stare.

"I'm going to tell you something else about our prolepsis," he said quietly, "but I don't want Attwood knowing about it. At least not yet."

Ed held up one hand. "My lips are sealed." He glanced toward the front of the plane, but Walter had vanished into the cockpit.

Tom hesitated another long moment, then spoke. "There are a few of us--a very few--who can sense further into the future."

Ed thought about that for a moment, and didn't much like the chill that ran down his spine. "How much further?"

"Years...decades even. They are honored among us, because they can tell us how to deal with some of the things that will occur. They can't see everything, but there are a few events they've pinpointed."

"But are they reliable? I mean, lots of people claim to be able to see the future, but no one really takes them seriously."

Tom's face was very grave. "They are reliable. They've proven themselves. Human science is only just beginning to look into the physics of precognition. We've been studying it for a long time."

Ed blew out a breath. "So...what have they predicted?"

Tom shook his head. "I can't tell you."

Ed rolled his eyes, disgusted, and Tom curled his mouth sardonically. "Not won't; can't. I can't remember any specific predictions, just that there are a few who make them. That sort of information was obviously too sensitive to leave inside my head."

It sounded a bit pat to Ed, but he had no reason not to believe Tom. "Must be tough," he offered after a moment. "Not being able to remember."

Tom tilted his head, accepting, and Ed closed his eyes in sudden exhaustion.

* * *

 

"The next thing I remember, we were landing," Ed finished.

Sloan's eyes were wide. "Nope, he definitely didn't tell me about--"

The phone rang, and both started. Sloan pounced on the receiver. "Hello?" she asked breathlessly.

"Your boss says, tell Ed to turn on his laptop," said a strange voice, and then the connection was cut.

Sloan stared at the phone for a moment, puzzled and upset. "What's the matter?" Ed asked. "Who was it?"

Sloan shook her head. "No one I know. She said that Walter says to tell you to turn on your computer. Does that make any sense to you?"

Ed frowned painfully. "The laptop?" He pressed his hands to his temples in an attempt to calm the pounding, and tried to think. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. E-mail!"

In moments they had the computer plugged in. Ed was about to go online when Sloan suddenly put her hand over his. "Ed, hold on a second. Is this a good idea?"

"What do you mean?" Ed peered up at her worried face.

"Well--Walter obviously thought someone might be listening in to that phone call, or else why bother with such an elaborate way of getting us the message?"

Ed sat back, eyes widening. "Unless it wasn't really Walter."

Sloan shook her head. "No, I think it was. And you know how easy it is to eavesdrop on a cell phone conversation, if you have the equipment." They traded grim looks. Both sides of this conflict certainly had the equipment. "But we don't know whether someone is monitoring us as well."

"You mean bugs?" Ed glanced around. "I don't think they had time."

"No. I mean tracking what we do online." Sloan looked down at the laptop. "They--whoever they are--could trace us through your computer."

"Hmmm." Ed frowned again, gratefully conscious that his headache was beginning to recede. "It'd be harder to tap into my machine than yours, but I'd better run that encryption program I got from my buddy Jack at Caltech."

Sloan nodded. "Do it. We need to find Walter and Ray. We can't help Tom without them."

A few minutes later they were reading a brief, chilling synopsis of what had happened to Walter, and to Ray, and to their hoped-for contact with the peace faction of _Homo dominant_. Ed swore under his breath and sent a reply with a few sentences outlining Tom's kidnapping and who they thought might be responsible.

Walter's answer was a few minutes in coming, and it wasn't just the server slowing things down.

_Ray and I can do nothing for Tom right now. We barely escaped with our own lives, and all our energy must be spent on keeping us out of the hands of my boss--my ex-boss, I should say--and the gunsights of the new species. We cannot return home, at least not yet, and we will have to be very cautious in contacting you. You are certainly being watched. Tom is probably alive, or they would not have bothered to kidnap him. Be patient. We will try to get ourselves out of our current dilemma, but it may take a while._

_I'm sorry, Sloan._

Ed glanced up at Sloan's slow nod. Tears were running down her face, and she turned and walked away to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Ed cleared his own throat and answered Walter. A few more brief exchanges and he logged off, then sat and thought for a while, his mind spinning uselessly over their dilemmas.

Eventually Sloan emerged from the bathroom, eyes swollen, and Ed patted the cushion beside him. She sank down next to him, and silently he enfolded her in a hug. They clung to each other for a time, seeking thin comfort, both dazed by the sudden shattering of their world.

They had to settle for frozen TV dinners--it was way past midnight by the time they got around to eating, and there were no delivery places open. Ed's stomach had settled and he ate with gusto, but Sloan picked at her food, face drawn. She couldn't stop thinking about Tom and what might be happening to him. Ed watched her across the table, but said nothing until she had stirred her mashed potatoes for the tenth time.

"Sloan. You gotta eat something. You can't help Tom if you die of malnutrition."

She glanced up, half a smile tilting her mouth for a moment. It faded quickly, but Ed was satisfied when she managed to swallow a few bites. Then she pushed the tray away, and after a minute he sighed and pulled it to him, forking into it.

"What are we going to do, Ed?" Sloan asked quietly. She gripped her mug harder to try to still the trembling in her hands. "How are we going to find him? It could take weeks for Walter to straighten out his situation."

"If he _can_ straighten it out." Ed dropped his fork onto his tray and stretched gingerly. "We talked for a few minutes after you left. Seems his boss was just about ready to kill them as to take them into custody. They may be on the run for a while."

Sloan shook her head, feeling yet another tear slide past her nose. "And what's happening to Tom? What do they want with him?"

"I don't know." Ed slumped. "We're in real trouble this time, Sloan, and not just because of Tom. We've lost our jobs, the serum, all our research. We're undoubtedly being watched--even if we knew where Tom was, they'd know what moves we were making."

Sloan took a long drink, trying to relax the ache in her throat, then turned the mug around in her hands. "Maybe Walter can give us an idea of where to start looking, anyway."

Ed nodded, though he didn't think the two men would have time to help them. "Maybe."

Suddenly Sloan's eyes narrowed. "I know somebody who can help us," she said thoughtfully. "Walter's boss."

"Sloan J. Parker. You can't be serious."

"Ed, she knows where he is--I saw her in the second car. She's responsible for this."

Ed's stomach sank at the look on Sloan's face. "What makes you think she'll tell you anything? She probably won't even admit to what happened. Sloan--"

"She saw me. I saw her. That's pretty hard to deny," Sloan interrupted. "She's the best lead we have, unless Walter can do something soon."

"What if she kidnaps you too?" Ed's voice rose in frustration.

"She had the opportunity already."

Ed recognized that stubborn expression. "First you have to find her. We don't even know her name."

Sloan shook her head, and Ed could almost see sparks flying from her curls. "Tom found her once, and he told me where."

Ed gave up; maybe she would be more sensible in the morning. He fished around for a different subject.

"Ray wants you to do something for him."

"What's that?" Sloan looked up.

"He asked if you could go over and see his wife, tell her he's okay, and tell her not to enter the Witness Protection Program if it's offered." He shook his head. "That seems kinda weird--you'd think his family would be safer if they were under cover, rather than out in the open where the new species could get at them."

Sloan thought for a moment. "No--I'll bet I know why. If they go into the Witness Protection Program, the government will have them--and by extension, they'll have Ray."

Ed's eyes widened. "You're right. I didn't think of that. Wait a minute--what if they go after your dad and Annie?"

"They're still in Germany," Sloan said, thinking wistfully of her father and older sister. "I don't think it's likely, and they're not due back until December."

"When's the new species' deadline again?" Ed asked, his head beginning to throb again.

"Second week in October."

They sat in depressed silence for a while. Finally Sloan pushed to her feet, automatically collecting the trays and throwing them into the trash. "You take my bed tonight," she said, giving him a stern look when he opened his mouth to protest. "You're too tall for the couch and you aren't over that drug yet. No arguments."

Ed grinned. "Yes, mother."

He was asleep before she had turned out the lights. She left one dim one on, unwilling to put the whole apartment into darkness--especially with the door broken. As she dug an extra pillow out of the closet, something occurred to her, and she went to check. Sure enough, Tom's jacket was still draped over the chair near the door. She scooped it up and took it and the pillow over to the couch, then sat down and buried her face in the jacket. It smelled of him still--a faint, spicy, male scent.

For a while she just rocked back and forth, inhaling again and again, calling Tom to mind as a talisman against his terrible absence. The memory that came most easily surprised her--the little space of fragile peace they had experienced in the "safe house" cabin where they had tried to hide from the Lynch clone. He had found them easily enough, but Sloan dwelled on the hour before that. She hadn't known that Tom knew how operate a wood stove, let alone split the wood. He had leaned over the couch where she had been sitting with one of her journals, and teased her about never reading anything else. It was rare that he ventured to joke with her, and she'd treasured the unguarded smile on his face. For a little while, they had looked into the future and seen possibilities instead of disaster.

 _He's not dead. I'd know if he were dead._ But would she? The reverse could be true, since he could tell what she was feeling--even if he couldn't always understand it. But would she feel the shock of his death--the emptiness left behind? He could be dead already, and she might never know for sure.

She was too tired to cry any more. Sloan put her head down and bundled the jacket against her chest, holding it tightly. At least it was something to hold.

Sleep crept up on her and stole her from her grief for a while.

* * *

 

The dark times were the worst because they seemed to go on forever, yet promised nothing but more pain at the end of them. He was never quite sure that he had not simply been abandoned in the dark to die of cold and dehydration, or alternately that they--whoever they were--were watching to see how long it took him to succumb. He knew that they were amazed that he had not begged for water long since. So far, they gave him just enough to keep him from going into shock, but not enough to keep him alive, not for the long run.

He was surprised at how much he cared. His own life had never mattered as much to him as it did to most _Homo sapiens_. After all, he had been trained to lay it down at a moment's notice for the greater cause. Lewis, for instance, if Attwood's boss had put him someplace similar, would have managed to find a way out--a permanent one--rather than allow any discoveries to be made about _Homo dominant._

But he could not give up fighting. He couldn't leave Sloan alone--and tangled in his fear for her was a slow-burning rage at the people who caged him and tortured him like an animal--worse by far than the lab's doomed monkeys, worse even than all his fears about what the success of Ed's serum would mean.

And when he did sleep, fitfully, he dreamed--dreamed Sloan weeping hopelessly, endlessly--for him. She cried often, when things moved her, something she found embarrassing but was one of the things he thought most endearing about her. She was a constant spring of strong emotion, catching his attention at the very first, when he had watched her in preparation for killing her. She was honest and open and real, and when she had fought him with words in her apartment, telling him that he wasn't a killer, she believed what she was saying. She had appalled him with her truth, and her pity for him; the tears that had slid from her eyes had wrung some part of him until he could not harm her, no matter the consequences. No one had ever felt for him. Not like she did.

Now, in his dreams, she buried her face in her arms and cried as though her heart were broken, and he ached to reach out and comfort her as he had so many times in the past. Once or twice, he could hear her talking with someone, but he could make out only a few words here and there-- _afraid he's dead_ \-- _Walter and Ray_ \-- _Sloan, don't cry_ \--

\--And he would jolt awake, shivering and miserable. Once it was the snap of the light that brought him up out of dreams, spotlighting him in the middle of nowhere. He was indoors somewhere, but he didn't know where. Just some room, so huge that he could not sense the walls or ceiling, deep enough that his cage squatted alone in a circle of harsh light. His tormentors came out of that darkness in their white lab coats and their remote manners, and they sank back into it, and sometimes he heard a door close, but it was very far away.

* * *

 

Sloan woke to pain, and the draining realization that the past eighteen hours had not been a nightmare. Her head ached; her heart ached. Stumbling into the kitchen area, she started a pot of coffee, then dropped onto a stool and stared blankly at her broken front door, listening to the sound of Ed in the shower without really noticing. _Got to call the supervisor,_ she thought finally, but when she glanced at the clock she realized it was too early. They had slept only a few hours. No new messages blinked on her answering machine, and when she checked Ed's laptop, there were no new e-mails.

"Hey, do I read your mail when you're not looking?" Ed complained behind her, and she turned. He was dressed in the sweats he had retrieved from his van, and he was toweling his hair vigorously.

"What mail?" Sloan stood up, feeling as tired as if she had gotten no sleep at all.

Ed snorted. "Give 'em time. Even Attwood has to sleep sometime." He slung the towel around his neck and went to get mugs out of the cupboard.

Sloan gave a ghost of a laugh. "Does he? Have we ever seen him sleep?"

Picking up the pot of coffee, Ed shot her a humorous look. "Good point. Maybe he's an alien from Mars."

"There's no intelligent life on Mars," Sloan said automatically, taking the cup he held out and dumping sugar into it.

Ed made a face. "Beats me how you can stand to drink it that way."

Sloan's eyes widened. "This from the man who puts half a cow in his coffee?"

Ed just shrugged and dug the milk out of the refrigerator, sniffing it warily before pouring any into his mug. Sloan's fragile humor drained away as she remembered opening the fridge and finding a mummy inside. Tom sometimes had the oddest ways of showing that he cared.

 _Tom..._ She set her mug down, her stomach churning again. What was happening to him?

Ed took a gulp of coffee and looked her over, eyes concerned. "Go take a shower, Sloan," he said quietly. "Then we can try to figure out what to do."

Waiting, however, appeared to be their only option. Ed went out for food as soon as Sloan was out of the shower, and reported on his return that her apartment was indeed under surveillance.

"You know, six months ago I would never have noticed that," he muttered, dropping a bag on the counter and pouring another cup of coffee.

"Ignorance is bliss," Sloan retorted, pulling a comb through her hair. A shower and clean clothes had washed away some of her exhaustion, but she still felt like she was in shock. "I'd guess that it's a safe bet that your place is being watched too."

Ed shrugged and unwrapped a sandwich. "The question is, by who? Us or them?"

Sloan's mouth tightened. "At this point, they're both 'them.'"

"Yeah." Ed sighed, and passed her the food. "And for all we know, we're being watched by both sides. Just in case."

Ignoring Ed's protests, Sloan headed out right after breakfast. Tom had indeed told her where he had found Walter's erstwhile boss, when he had been trying to discover who her "reliable source" was in the matter of the orange juice boxes. But the building, when she found it, was dark and locked. Peering through the windows, Sloan saw only a scattering of paper on the lobby floor and one broken chair in a corner. Sick with rage and fear, she leaned her head against the glass and choked back a sob. Walter's boss had packed up and moved out in a hurry, and Sloan was out of ideas.

Ed listened patiently to her fury when she returned, and then held her while she cried. "Walter will come up with something," he told her. "Just be patient a little while longer."

When she was calmer, they decided that Ed would go back to the lab to see if he could get in, and to talk to university administration to see what was going on. "At the very least I can try to get our personal stuff back," he said, pulling on his jacket. "I'll pick up some groceries on the way back here."

"You just want me to make linguine."

Ed shot her a wry look. "Better you than me. Be kind of embarrassing for Ray and Walter to get here and find us both dead of food poisoning."

Sloan rolled her eyes at him, and he waved and vanished out the broken door. She propped it closed again behind him, and shivered. She would rather go out herself, but someone had to stay in case any of their missing called in--and besides, Ed had not gotten himself thrown out of the lab the night before.

Sloan called the supervisor to report the broken door, cleaned up the debris of breakfast, and checked Ed's e-mail for the hundredth time. Then she paced for a while. It was no good trying to do anything that required concentration, she knew, but she had to distract herself with something, before her fear for Tom drove her down into despair.

 _I don't even have any photos of him...do I?_ Members of the new species tried to avoid photographs, Tom had told her, unless the pictures were to be used as props. But Sloan remembered something, and went scrabbling through a pile of papers she had brought home from the lab weeks before. There had been a birthday party at the lab for one of the techs. Someone had brought a camera, and had later handed her an envelope with a few prints that Sloan hadn't had time to look at since.

The envelope spilled three photos into her hands: Sloan and Ed, making faces at the camera; Sloan, Ed, and Walter talking; and--yes--Tom and Sloan. They were standing together, his hand on her arm, looking at each other rather than the camera. Sloan didn't remember the photo being taken, but she remembered the moment. Tom had retreated to a corner of the lab, murmuring in her ear that he needed to back off a little from the party, and she had brought him a piece of cake a few minutes later. He had looked at the cake, and then back at her, and the wonder in his eyes at her simple action had put a lump in her throat. Kindness and the small gestures of affection had been totally absent from his life, and something that required no thought on her part often meant a great deal to him.

Sloan stared at the photo as though she could climb inside it, back to a less perilous time. _Turn around,_ she found herself urging the image. _Turn and tell me you're still alive!_

She tried to laugh at herself. "You're going nuts, Dr. Parker," she whispered. "Now you're talking to people who aren't even there."

She laid the photos carefully aside, so they wouldn't get wet, and wept again.

* * *

 

Ed's arms were full of groceries, so he banged on the repaired door with his foot. A moment later, it opened, and Sloan took one of the bags.

"That was fast," Ed commented, nodding to the door as he closed it behind him.

Sloan set the bag on the counter. "For once. I think the super is getting a little alarmed by all the stuff that's been going on."

"You won't have much of a deposit left after this." Ed slid the other bag next to the first. "Give me a hand with the rest of this stuff?"

"So?" Sloan asked, trailing him out to his van. "What's the party line?"

Ed handed her two bags. "Officially? Administration is cooperating with a classified investigation--not that they had much choice--and the lab is off-limits to anyone not cleared by the unnamed agency that's taken it over. That includes you and me. Old Schmidt is sweating heavy--they must have scared him pretty good."

Sloan snorted and headed back inside. The college president was a capable administrator but most of the bio lab found him too smarmy to be likable. "Who else did you talk to?"

"Well, with Walter in absentia there's only Dr. Jackson, and he really doesn't have a clue either." Ed set down the last bag. "But he promised to try to get our personal stuff back after it's been examined by the agency. No hope for any of the data, though."

"Or the serum." Sloan shook her head. "This is bad, Ed."

Ed collapsed onto one of the stools. "Tell me about it. It's a good thing I have a trust fund, 'cause I really don't think we'll be able to find jobs anytime soon."

"Not unless it's flipping burgers," Sloan agreed. "Any lab will take one look at us and run screaming." She wasn't too worried about money either; her inheritance from her mother would last her for a while. "We've got to find Tom first anyway."

Ed nodded slowly. "How're you doing?" he asked softly.

Half undone by the gentle question, Sloan sat down. "I'm barely holding up," she admitted. "I keep wondering if he's okay. What are they doing to him? For all we know he's dead!"

Ed reached across the counter and put his hand on hers. "Don't think that way.  It's like Walter said, if they wanted him dead all they had to do was shoot him. They'll keep him alive."

"But for what?" Sloan asked, her voice thickening. "So they can run experiments on him? Try to get information out of him?"

Ed's eyes were dark with worry. "I don't know."

* * *

Sloan made her promised visit to Ray's family that afternoon, leaving Ed to hold the fort. Grace Peterson had listened calmly to Sloan's explanation, then had gone about efficiently making preparations to leave. "We'll go down to my sister's in the Virgin Islands," she told Sloan. "She runs a resort on one of the British islands. I've been trying to get Ray to go down there for a vacation for years, but we've never..." She had to stop and gulp hard, and Sloan put a hand on her shoulder.

"He'll be fine, Mrs. Peterson," she said, hoping she was right. "He's with Walter, and Walter is nothing if not resourceful. They'll get things straightened out."

The woman exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Will you tell Ray where we've gone?" she asked. "From what he's told me, there's no place completely safe, but at least we'll be out of the country."

"Of course I will," Sloan said. "He'll be so relieved to know you're out of harm's way." She paused as something occurred to her. "Maybe," she said slowly, "you'd better leave the U.S. by car. The agency that's after Ray may be watching the airports."

Grace gave her a dry look. "Don't worry, I'm not stupid. We'll drive down to Baja and go from there. It's still a risk, but not such a big one."

Sloan glanced back into the living room, where Ray's sturdy son was playing a video game. "Take care," she said softly.

On the drive back to her apartment Sloan found herself watching the pedestrians she passed, searching for a familiar dark form and sharp grey gaze. _Don't,_ she told herself. _It only makes it worse._ But she couldn't help hoping. After all, the new species was adept at escaping imprisonment--Randall Lynch being an obvious example. Mightn't Tom do the same?

She came home to find Ed online with Ray and Walter again. She reported to Ray about his family, and then Ed logged off. "We've been talking for a little while," he explained, "and Walter still doesn't want to take too many chances. But he gave me the name of a place where he thinks they could be holding Tom, and Ray mentioned someone in his old division who may be willing to help."

Sloan leaned over his shoulder to read, unreasonable hope springing up. "I've never heard of it."

"Well, I think it's a research lab," Ed said, "but the last I heard it was for physics. The problem will be getting inside."

Sloan nodded. "Are you sure you want to do this, Ed? It's going to be dangerous."

Ed swung around in the chair to give her a hurt look. "Give me a break, Sloan. Tom's my friend too."

"Sorry," she said, grateful.

"Besides," he grinned suddenly, "what else am I going to do?"

"Help Walter and Ray?" she suggested. "Is there anything we can do?"

Ed turned back to the laptop. "Not at the moment. Actually, Walter said that they may be out of touch for a while. They've both got a few contacts they want to try out, but Walter's afraid that they could get tracked online if they do too much. They'll get back to us when they can, but we're not supposed to worry."

Sloan let out an annoyed breath. "As though we can just forget about them."

Ed shut the laptop down. "I know, I know, but that's the way it is right now.  How about some pizza?"

"What about all those groceries you just bought?" Sloan protested.

"I want pizza," Ed insisted, and picked up the phone. "Can I stay here again tonight?" he asked as he dialed. "I really don't think either one of us should be alone for too long."

"Sure," Sloan said. "That would make me feel better, actually."

Ed placed the order and hung up the phone. "Great. I'll run back to my place for a few things. There's a sleeping bag in the van."

"You can have the bed," Sloan offered, but he shook his head.

"I'm not going to make you sleep on that couch again. You looked like death warmed over this morning. I'll be fine."

Sloan swallowed hard. Her looks when she had woken had less to do with lack of sleep and more with worry and fear. "Okay," she said quietly, and retreated to her bedroom, closing the folding doors before Ed could see the tears in her eyes. She knew she wasn't fooling him, but at least he wouldn't have to watch.

* * *

 

He hadn't realized how weak he was becoming until he brought himself out of a half-daze with a start. The light was still on, but he was lying on his side in the cage. They had left off for the moment--they did that sometimes--though he had no illusions that they were not watching. He rolled stiffly into a crouch, unwilling to be so vulnerable and shocked that he had allowed himself to become so. He had long since noted that none of what was being done to him was life-endangering--humiliating, yes; painful, certainly; agonizing, sometimes--but if he was going to die in here it would be from thirst, or cold, or some deliberate move on their part. He had often wondered if they kept any others like him there, and if they performed even crueler experiments elsewhere. He was well aware of the range of torments that could be inflicted, and the various scientific differences between their species that could be discovered.

That was part of what puzzled him about all this. They might be trying to break him, but not for information he possessed. He knew all about that sort of work, having been trained for it--and in fact having done quite well at it. Those memories were ones that he preferred not to think about very much; the emotions now attached to them were confusing and uncomfortable. His training as an interrogator was one of the things he had not told Sloan about, though his intuition about emotions had been one of the things that drew him to her. But if his captors had any purpose in mind, it was not information. They never spoke to him at all--merely about him, as though he were some animal that could not understand. It made the fury inside him burn hotter.

Sometimes it made that desire to flee all the stronger, as well. As he had explained to Kevin, _Homo dominant_ had an instinct that demanded freedom from the weaker beings around it, that clamored at times until the presence of _Homo sapiens_ could become a sort of dull pain. He'd learned to repress that one early on, since it would be a hazard in his work, and it scarcely troubled him anymore--especially since he began regarding certain humans as friends rather than the inferior, the enemy.

But now there were times when it broke out afresh, making him struggle vainly against what they were doing, made him almost desperate to get away from them and their maddening psyches. Until, as he gasped and sagged in the restraints, his mind presented him with an image: Sloan, standing just outside the circle of people, shining with her own soft light. Not panicked, as he'd last seen her, when he'd done all he could to keep them from taking him away from her. _I can tell you I'd never leave you..._ Her face now was calm, her eyes steady as she met his frantic gaze, pouring strength into him from afar. He knew she wasn't really there, but he drank in what she gave him, relaxing, regaining control. He almost laughed out loud at the puzzlement of his captors.

Every time he neared breaking, after that, she would shimmer into life a few yards away. Once Ed stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, adding his strength to hers--as always. He knew she was a hallucination-- _knew_ it--but he welcomed her as he would the real Sloan. More so, in fact--his tormentors could not see the hallucination, let alone harm it. They could buzz and mutter all they wanted about altered brain waves and drops in adrenaline--he didn't care. He laid his head back and drifted into oblivion.

* * *

Sitting in Detective Willis' tiny office, Sloan sent a silent thank-you to Ray. His contact, it seemed, was beginning to believe in the new species and its threat. She'd been worried that he would laugh her out of the police station--or worse yet, arrest her.

The tall, balding officer leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "That's a bad business," he said. "I hate to think of Peterson on the run like that. You're sure his family's okay?"

Sloan looked at her watch. "They should be in Baja by now," she said.

Willis glanced toward his door, which he had closed as soon as Sloan identified herself. "I'd like to help, but we'll have to be careful. This sort of thing got Ray fired, and our lieutenant is not at all happy with the whole business."

Sloan nodded understanding. "Anything you can do, we'll be grateful. We're basically helpless right now."

He leaned forward again, fixing her with an intense gaze. "Now, tell me about this Daniels guy. Isn't he one of...them?"

"Yes, but he's joined us." Sloan didn't like his skeptical expression. "Really. He's saved my life several times, and he's done a great deal to help us."

Willis grimaced. "Well, either way, kidnapping him was a clear violation of his civil rights, and a felony. That alone puts the government on shaky ground, though it may not really do us any good. The feds are notoriously snooty about letting anyone into their territory, or telling us insignificant local forces anything. But we'll see what we can do," he added at the look on Sloan's face. "This lab--" he tapped it--"it's out of my jurisdiction, which means that I'll need to get authorization. Could take a few days. Then we'll go and see if we can find anything."

"Thank you so much," Sloan said gratefully, and he shook his head again.

"It may not work at all," he warned.

Sloan smiled sadly. "We have to start somewhere. It's good of you to help us."

Willis rose, smiling back. "Ray Peterson saved my life a couple of times too. There's not much I wouldn't do for him if it's within my powers. You're his friend."

Sloan stood up, and gripped his outstretched hand. "You'll call us?"

He nodded. "Soon as I have something."

It took ten days for Willis to get the necessary authorization, and Sloan thought she would go mad with waiting. She and Ed were beginning to snap at one another, both feeling slightly trapped in the apartment. Sloan was sick with worry, unable to sleep, and Ed was not much better himself. Neither was used to having so little to do. Ed took to going for long walks, circling endlessly around the neighborhood, and practiced picking out the vehicles most likely to be watching them. Once he was sure, he took great enjoyment in going up to them and asking them how things were going with the spying. It never failed to unnerve the feds, though once he got a stare that sent a chill through him and realized that he had picked out a _Homo dominant_ team. That particular van disappeared, and Ed swore at himself for tipping their hand. He was certain they sent another team, but he couldn't find it.

Finally Willis drove by to pick Sloan up. Ed stayed behind in case one of the fugitives communicated, but the detective took Sloan out to the isolated laboratory.  She could barely contain her impatience as Willis talked his way from gate to entrance to secretary and so on up the chain. As he had explained to her on the drive up, his authorization was too fragile for him to push his luck.

By the time they got permission to go through the lab, it was closing for the day, and they had to leave without getting any further inside. Willis promised to bring Sloan back to continue the search, but a new case took him away for another week; Sloan tried to control her frustration, grateful that he was able to take any time at all to help her.

Then she began to dream of Tom. It had been almost three weeks since she had seen him dragged off. Ed was out, visiting a friend at UCLA, and Sloan was rummaging through a box of old paperwork. Having so much time on her hands had allowed her to make a stab at organizing the parts of her life that she never had time for. She couldn't concentrate very long, and some of the papers she filed away had tear marks on them, but at least it was something to do. Her eyelids were growing heavy as she sorted out tax forms and old research proposals. Finally, half-unconsciously, she put her head down on the table. _Just for a few minutes..._

It wasn't an ordinary dream, all jumbled images and illogical events. Nor was it one of the nightmares that had begun to plague her lately, the ones where Tom's corpse played a prominent part. She slid into the dream as into water, and it seemed that she saw everything through a faint haze. There was Tom, trapped in the middle of a clutch of shadowy figures. Sloan's sleeping mind could not make out the details, but she could see that Tom was in distress, almost panicked at the press about him. She couldn't reach him, she knew as one knows things in dreams, but...she caught his gaze with hers, felt his attention lock on her. All her caring for him, her love and worry, seemed to stream through her and along that link. His struggles stilled, the frenzy left his expression, his breathing steadied. She smiled at him, feeling him strengthen somehow.

Sloan jerked awake, dazed and astonished. The dream scattered in her head, and all her mental scrambling recovered only a few scraps. _Tom? Alive?_ "That was so real," she mumbled, pushing her hair out of her face and wincing at the cramp in her neck. Then she laughed dryly. _Don't be silly, you're a scientist. That was nothing but wishful thinking._

Still, her heart was curiously uplifted, and when she went to bed that night she hoped against hope that she would dream again; the dream, or ones very like it, did repeat themselves a few times over the next week or so. Sloan hesitated to tell Ed about them; when she finally did he was interested but skeptical.

"I'm glad you feel good about them, Sloan, but I don't know."

Sloan propped her elbows on the table. "Well, neither do I. For all I know it's just my subconscious being optimistic. But they are so real! I forget most of the details within a few minutes of waking up, but they feel as though I were really there."

Ed shrugged. "Whatever. It's not something you can prove anyway. And if you are communicating with Tom, why doesn't he say anything? Tell you where he is?"

"Maybe he doesn't know," Sloan answered. "Maybe he doesn't think the dreams are real either."

"Can't you ask him?"

Sloan gave him a skeptical glance. " _You_ try remembering to do something in the middle of a dream. It never occurs to me to speak."

"Hmmm." Ed's expression grew thoughtful. "So you've never tried lucid dreaming?"

Sloan shook her head. "Have you?"

"Nah, but I read a couple of articles." Ed shook his head and stood up. "If we had an EEG machine we could hook you up and I could remind you as soon as you began dreaming, but..."

Sloan shook her head. "Sorry. Don't have one of those in the closet."

* * *

 

Why, he wondered tiredly, did his subconscious have to take that particular form when it wanted to play devil's advocate?

Lewis' sardonic voice played over his inner ear, trying to tempt him into doubt. _Sloan's forgotten about you. She's a human. Inferior._

He laughed inwardly at the thought. Human Sloan might be, but inferior she was not. She might not think as quickly as most _Homo dominants_ , but her mind was sharp and clear.

 _Don't be stupid._ His former mentor's face rose up in his mind, smiling, cold. _She's given up on you long since. Gone away to find someplace safe, where she can continue to plot against us._

_Sloan wouldn't leave me alone. She loves me._

He flinched at the cutting chuckle. _Loves you! How can she? You're different. To her you're nothing more than a pet, a tame creature running obediently along to rescue her when she gets in trouble._

He thought of Sloan's fierce loyalty, her defense of him against others' doubts, how she had returned his trust with the gift of her own.

_Love is a trap, a weakness._

_It's not. I don't understand it, but it is a power._ He sighed. He'd never expected to love, or to be loved, but the fact of it was as much an alteration as his brief taste of humanity. Sloan fed some deep hunger in him, one he had never realized until he'd met her, and he was moved beyond wonder at the thought that he meant anything similar to her.

_No. She's gone. Even if you survive this, even if you get out, she'll be gone. Tate or Attwood will have taken her away and you'll never find her._

That was a possibility, though he couldn't see Sloan permitting such a thing unless she thought him dead. It sent a chill through him. He had already seen that Attwood held both scientists as his children, caring about them enough to protect them--whether they wanted protection or not.

The desire to protect was an emotion he did understand quite well.

 _I will find her._ He held the thought firmly, and Lewis' voice faded away. _I will find her._

* * *

Finally the detective was able to get away for another day. He and Sloan hunted through mazes of corridors and laboratories, trailed by hostile security personnel, searching for some clue, some hint of Tom's presence. Sloan wished more than once for a little of the new species' ability to sense emotion. The complex was absolutely huge, and she could not be sure that they had found everything. Willis' face grew grimmer as the day wore on; Sloan couldn't tell if it was because they found no trace of Tom or from the implications of what else went on at the lab. Physics was not Sloan's field, but she could see that the people there were doing more than particle experiments.

Eventually, however, they had to quit. Sloan held in her frustration as they left. Maybe Tom was being held elsewhere, or maybe they had missed something. Maybe he was dead. _I won't give up,_ she told herself...ignoring the small voice that asked her just what else she thought she could do.

Detective Willis had no further suggestions. Sloan knew he was pushing his luck in taking the time that he did to help her look, and she thanked him again when he dropped her off at her apartment. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I don't know what else to tell you."

Sloan smiled at him sadly. "It was worth a try," she said quietly. "I guess there's nothing left to do but wait."

* * *

 

Once again he snapped out of a daze. Something had touched the edge of his senses, something familiar. He stared into the darkness, straining his perceptions around him. What was it? It was just...there...

 _Sloan._ He rose to a crouch, almost involuntarily. Sloan was somewhere in the building, somewhere nearby. He grabbed the bars of the cage, gripping them tightly. Was she a prisoner too?

It was hard for him to sort through her tangle of emotions at this distance, harder still to put names to them, but he sagged in relief when he found no hint of panic. She was free, then. And she must be searching for him, judging from the fear, anger, worry, and impatience that were tumbling through her. He was torn among fury at her for endangering herself, and breath-stealing awe, and that strange, sharp-sweet, hurting emotion that he thought must be love.

He knew she wouldn't find him. There was no way any civilian was going to find out about this place, let alone someone undoubtedly marked as dangerous to the government's plans. He had long since realized that this secret lab must be attached to something legitimate--too many people came and went for it to be completely hidden. So Sloan had found the outer part, or someone had told her about it. _Get out,_ he thought fiercely at her, though he knew she couldn't hear him. _Get out before someone gets too suspicious._

And eventually she faded out of his range. He could sense the despair and frustration deepening in her as she left without finding him, and he was so grateful that she was getting away. But her leaving left a bigger hole inside him, and he curled up again in the blackness. _She came looking for me,_ he told himself, trying to keep warm at this one small flame.

* * *

 _Island of the Spiders,_ Ed insisted, was just the thing to distract Sloan from her worries. Neither of them was able to concentrate very well, however; halfway through the black-and-white horror film, Ed, sitting on the floor, realized that Sloan had fallen asleep on the couch behind him. He sighed and stretched his legs out, leaning back against the seat of the sofa, and hit the mute button on the remote. It was almost more fun to make up the dialogue in his head anyway, but eventually his head tipped back against Sloan's legs and he dropped off.

Sloan woke to find the TV showing silent static and Ed sitting up with his head in his hands. "I dreamed it too," he said quietly.

She put one hand on his hair. "I know," she said. "I felt you behind me."

Ed lifted his head and looked at her, disturbed. "What's happening to us? What are they doing to Tom?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know."

Two days later Ed returned from one of his rambles to report that the surveillance teams were gone.

"At least the ones I know about," he temporized, tossing his jacket onto a chair. "Couldn't find any trace of 'em."

"That's weird." Sloan paused in chopping celery. "Are we no longer a threat?"

"Who knows?" Ed snatched a stalk from the cutting board and began chewing vigorously. "Maybe they'll come back. And for all we know, the _Homo dominant_ team is still out there. I never could find them again."

He sat down at the laptop to check the e-mail, and after a moment his brows shot up. "Sloan--c'mere."

Sloan dried her hands on a towel as she walked over. "What's up?"

Ed pointed to the screen. "Walter's found us a safe place to go."

Sloan read the message quickly. Attwood was offering them a sort of safe house out in the desert, a place where they would not be watched and where he and Ray could join them to make plans. But she shook her head and flipped the towel onto her shoulder. "I'm not going."

Ed spun to look at her. "Not going? Sloan, are you crazy? The new species could decide to take us out any minute here, never mind the government!"

Sloan set her jaw. "I'm not going anywhere until we find out what happened to Tom." She saw the expression on his face and unbent a little. "Ed...what if he gets away? How will he find us if we're not here?"

"If he has any sense, he won't come anywhere near here. This is the first place they'll look!"

"He'll come." Sloan was certain.

Ed took a deep breath. "Sloan, we don't even know if he's still alive. And either way, he would want you to be safe."

For a moment she wavered, seeing the truth in Ed's argument, but then she sighed. "No. I have to be here. Ed, I won't give up on him. Any more than I gave up on you when Copeland kidnapped you." She looked down into his face, smiling a little at the worry and frustration written there. "You can go if you want."

Ed snorted. "As if."

Sloan thumped him gently with the towel and walked back over to the kitchen. "Tom would kill me if I left you alone, anyway," Ed muttered under his breath, and began trying to compose a reply, wincing at the thought of what Attwood was going to say.

* * *

The opportunity came so simply. He shuddered, later, to think how easily he might have missed it.

They had the light on again, though they'd put him back in his cage, and he estimated that they were nearing the end of the current session. They were clustered a few feet away from his cage--out of arm's reach, though, they had learned that very early on--muttering scientific jargon to each other. He watched them. It was always better to know what was coming, if possible. One of them put her clipboard under her arm so she could gesture with both hands, and his eyes widened fractionally as he saw the pen start to slide out from under the clip. He held his breath. The pen tilted--held--

\--and then fell. He coughed, loudly, trying to cover the sound of the pen hitting the floor and bouncing, and they all jumped and turned toward him. The pen rolled a few feet to one side and stopped, and he coughed again, so they wouldn't think too hard about it. After a moment, they turned away again, and he huddled in his prison and prayed to the God Sloan had told him about. His body was taut with tension, which only intensified the aches, but he had to control himself. _Just a few minutes longer._

Finally, finally, they collected their equipment and filed away into the darkness, and a little while later the harsh light snapped off. He made himself wait, in case it was another test, but he could not sense anything, anyone. At last he moved.

It took him subjective hours to snag the pen and drag it to him. He had to take off his filthy trousers and use them to extend his reach, casting into the blackness in the direction of the pen and hoping that he did not knock it further away. At last he heard it dragging under the cloth, and he strained through the bars until his fingertips touched it.

A silent laugh swelled his throat as he grasped it. It was a good, expensive fountain pen, too, not a cheap disposable. Not that he could pick the lock with it, not at all; but it was sturdy enough that he could use it, and his inherent strength, to knock the pin out of the hinge on the cage. He had noted that security flaw within moments of examining the cage when he had first woken within it, but without a tool he could do nothing. Now he had the tool.

Again, it seemed to take forever. He wrapped his trousers around the hinge, afraid of making too much noise, and banged steadily away. His fingers were bruised and the cloth torn before he managed to work the pin free--but the door swung open at a gentle push, and he stepped out onto the cold floor, breathing a silent thank-you.

It took precious minutes to stretch out his cramped muscles, but at last he headed out into the darkness, in the direction of that far-off door he had heard a few times. Eventually he found a wall, put one hand on it, and began walking. His guess was good. The door was not far away--and it was not locked. He shook his head. The cage may have been secure, but his captors were very careless to use only one layer to keep him in.

He pressed his ear to the door, but could hear nothing. When he edged it open a crack, blinking at the light, he found a long, blank corridor. Empty. Not even--and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction--any security cameras.

A few minutes of cautious exploration revealed that he was in the heart of an enormously extensive complex--and it was apparently the middle of the night. The inner portion of the complex, a maze of labs and hallways, was deserted, for which he was profoundly grateful. He found a water cooler in one of the labs; the first swallow was a blessing, and he reined in his tearing thirst with difficulty. But too much at once would make him sick, and he was already nearly staggering from fatigue and hunger, and abuse. He had to get out before someone noticed he was gone.

The simplest way, he finally decided, was to take a page from Lynch's book, and just walk out. Humans saw what they expected to see.

He grabbed a lab coat from a hook to cover his bare torso and the worst of the bruises, then slipped out into the outer complex. The floor plan was absurdly simple, and he had little trouble avoiding the few people moving around. Spotting a restroom, he hid quickly in a inside before anyone took a second look at him.

He leaned against the wall of one of the stalls, panting a little. His body was threatening to betray him with weakness, but he had to get out of the building at least before he could take even a short rest. This hiding place was only an illusion of safety, and would probably be one of the first places searched when his absence was discovered.

But then opportunity pushed open the door and walked in. The slender man was dressed in an impeccable suit and carrying a briefcase, with the faint air of someone who was other than what he appeared to be--and the hint of a bulge under one arm, where a holster could rest. A few seconds later, however, the agent was unconscious on the floor.

He dragged the man into the stall and stripped him quickly, then tied and gagged his prize with cloth torn from the lab coat. It would have been easier, and safer, to kill, but he knew that was wrong.

A hollow-cheeked ghost stared back at him from the mirror, face marred by bruises and eyes dull with exhaustion and dehydration. He ran a hand over his chin, wincing, but his control had held and there was no stubble to deal with. A few minutes of splashing and more winces cleaned off the worst of the stink, and he donned his purloined clothing.

If he had believed in luck, he would have marveled at it. The clothes and shoes were too big, but not unmanageably so; the handgun was fully loaded. He examined the badge; the face in the photo was wider than his own, but it had dark hair, and he decided it was better to wear it and risk the comparison than to not wear it at all. His appearance would not hold up under close scrutiny anyway.

He slipped out into the corridor and followed a passerby at a distance. As he hoped, the woman led him to the front door, which had a guard checkpoint. He hung back for a moment, observing; but the guards only watched idly as the woman signed out and left.

He exhaled to calm his racing mind, took a firm grip on his shaky body, and walked toward the checkpoint, projecting the aura of authority that he had employed in his role as a Bureau agent. The guards looked up as he approached, but paid no more attention to his illegible scrawl on the sign-out sheet than they had to the woman. He swallowed, and pushed open the door, and walked out into the night. _Sloan..._

* * *

Sloan's spirits were slipping. It had been nearly a week since the fruitless lab search, and her stock of hope was running low. She returned from a distracted walk to find Ed dressed to go out. "Where are you off to?"

"I'm meeting my pal at UCLA," he explained, shrugging into a coat. "We're still trying to reconstruct the serum data, but it's slow going without the tick samples. I didn't have enough of it backed up on my laptop."

On impulse, Sloan kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck," she said softly, and Ed gave her a hug and left.

Alone again, Sloan wandered through her rooms, restless and uneasy. Despair was creeping up on her. _Something awful's happened to Tom, I just know it. Is he hurt? Is he dead?_

She shuddered at a new thought, and scooped up his jacket as if for comfort. _What if he's reverted? What if something they've done to him has turned him back into the killer he used to be?_

It had never occurred to her before, but perhaps he had ended up in the same place as Lewis. _We don't know what key Lewis used on Tom to put him in that trance. Maybe Lewis turned him back and they both escaped._

If that were true, Sloan would probably be first on Lewis' list of targets--unless the danger from the government kept him away. _But the surveillance teams are gone now. There's nothing to keep Lewis from sending Tom straight in._

She had succeeded in bringing Tom back to himself before, but he had been helpless at the time. Tom, free and armed, might not give her the chance to do anything, and while tackling and kissing him had a certain appeal, she didn't think she'd get such an opportunity.

Sloan shook herself. This was getting her nowhere. She cuddled the jacket against her cheek, feeling the tears rising again. "Tom," she whispered. "I miss you."

Slowly, she stretched out on her bed, the empty ache inside threatening to overwhelm her, and wept herself into a fitful sleep.

* * *

He was so tired. It had taken him a very long time to get back to the city, thanks to his exhaustion; first, he had stolen a truck from the complex and abandoned it a few miles down the road--in the wrong direction. Misdirection might buy him a few hours.

When he finally reached Sloan's neighborhood, he cast around him with dulled senses for signs of watchers, but could find nothing. He frowned, blinking at the setting sun. Was he too tired, or were they actually gone? That didn't make sense.

To be on the safe side, he got into Sloan's building the way he always had. It occurred to him that he never had explained to her how he did it. But he stood inside her apartment at last, his hands shaking with fatigue around the gun, straining his senses. Someone was there, but he could not tell who.

He stepped through the dim light toward Sloan's bedroom, and let out his pent-up breath in indescribable relief. The huddled form on the bed was crowned with riotous curls.

 _She's all right._ He staggered a bit, knees suddenly weak, then straightened and walked silently to the edge of the bed. He gazed down, drinking her in. She murmured in her sleep, tears still marking her cheeks, with--he squinted a little--his jacket tucked against her.

His lips turned up at the sight. Carefully, trying not to wake her--she looked so pale and drawn--he set the handgun on the table next to the bed and lay down next to her. He traced his fingers over the curve of her face, lightly, trembling a little. Her skin was warm and velvet soft, and the persistent gnawing in his middle finally eased. He was back where he belonged.

Her eyes opened slowly to fix on his face. Sleepy wonder gave way to that shimmering joy that he coveted so; her arms went around him--tight, tight--her voice repeated his name in shaky syllables against his ear. He pulled her as close as possible, eyes burning and breath coming hard through his constricted throat. Warmth flooded through him, dispelling the lingering chill from his imprisonment. All the days of fear and pain were pushed aside by the feel of her body against his, the scent and sight of her, the relief and love overwhelming his senses as they poured from her. "Sloan," he muttered, pressing his face into her hair, feeling her tears soaking into his stolen shirt. Nothing was more precious than this.

Sloan finally pulled away, just enough to see his face, to cup his cheek in her palm. "I was so afraid you were dead," she whispered.

"I was afraid you'd been taken too," he managed, voice hoarse. "I couldn't tell."

"Ohh..." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. "No, I was safe. But Tom--what have they done to you--"

He shook his head, and blotted the moisture away with his fingertips. Her heart swelled at his touch, and she traced the bruises on his face, but let the questions lie for the moment. "I didn't know what to do," she said softly.

"You tried," he said, and smiled. She wanted to ask him how he knew, but the tenderness of his expression undid her. Their mouths met, gently, one kiss not enough to undo all the harm. But it was a beginning.

Then Tom pulled her close again, tucking her head under his chin, and she could feel him shaking. She held him with all that was in her, the relief almost unbearable after so agonizing a time. He was thinner, almost emaciated, and Sloan nearly wept again at the evidence of maltreatment. Something terrible had been done to him.

Gradually his trembling eased and his tense body relaxed somewhat. Sloan lifted her head, noting the signs of extreme exhaustion in his battered face. He stared at her wonderingly, his eyes traveling over her as though to refill some emptied cup of memory.

"You should sleep," she told him gently.

His arms tightened a bit. "I don't want to leave you," he said, and she knew he feared to go even as far as oblivion.

"I'll be right here," she assured him. "I don't want to leave you either."

After a moment he sighed, and loosened his grip. Sloan sat up, pushing her hair out of her face, and gazed down at him happily. He smiled again, that small shy smile that always warmed her, and took her hand in his. "Can I have some water?" he asked.

She slid off the bed and stood up, then lifted their joined hands to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his before letting go. "Be right back."

She filled a glass and brought it to him, conscious always of his gaze following her. He sat up as she returned, and her heart twisted as she saw how stiffly he moved. What kind of injuries were hidden under his clothing? As he drank, she removed the shoes he was wearing, wondering briefly where he had gotten the clothes--then deciding that it was probably better if she didn't know.

"Want some more?" she asked, taking the glass. His eyes were already sliding shut, though he was struggling valiantly to stay awake.

"No," he answered. "I can't have too much at once."

Sloan set the glass aside. "Lie down," she ordered, turning back the comforter. His eyebrows rose, but he sank down onto his side, still trying to watch her. She lay down behind him, and his head lifted a little, but she pulled the comforter halfway up and put her arms around him from behind, curving her legs to fit against his. He let out a long breath as she snuggled up close, and his hands covered hers where she pressed one against his waist, the other on his chest. Sleep took him quickly; Sloan felt the tension in him melting into limpness, and she pressed her forehead gently against the back of his head and wept a few last silent tears.

She drowsed for a while herself, opening her eyes every so often to smile at the back of Tom's neck. Finally she eased gently away from him; his hands tightened briefly on hers, but then relaxed again as he slid deeper into sleep. She got cautiously out of the bed and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders. Spotting the gun on the bedside table, she grimaced, then picked it up gingerly and put it in the table's drawer.

Ed had left the number of the UCLA lab where he was working. Knowing him, Sloan thought as she dialed, he would still be deep in experiments; when he got on a roll there was no stopping him for hours. She had to let the phone ring ten times before an impatient male voice answered.

"Ed Tate, please?" she asked, and was put on hold for a moment while the man went to haul Ed out of whatever he was working on. At last he answered. "Sloan? Everything okay?"

She had to bite down a laugh, in case somebody was listening on their line. "Can you come back, please, Ed? I...I don't want to be alone right now." She winced a bit at the lie, but she did not want anybody who might be listening in to know about Tom. Whoever had held him would miss him soon, if they hadn't already.

Ed sighed. "Sure. This is going nowhere anyway." She saw him in her mind's eye, lab coat rumpled, scrubbing his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Thanks," she said, with complete sincerity.

"Be there as soon as I can," he said, and hung up.

She met him at the door when he arrived, one finger on her lips and her eyes dancing. His brows went up in a question, but he held his peace as she let him in.

"On the bed," she said softly, pointing into her bedroom. A grin spread slowly over Ed's face as he made out the familiar form tucked under the covers.

"He made it back?" he whispered, and Sloan nodded, smiling back. Ed enveloped her in a swift hug, and her laugh choked in her throat a moment before she stepped back to look up at him.

"He's in bad shape, Ed. I don't know what they did to him, but he's really hurt."

Ed sobered and fetched his doctor's bag, stowed in Sloan's closet. "Let's take a look."

Tom did not wake as Ed did a quick examination, a fact that worried the doctor. The _Homo dominant's_ hyper-alert senses should have brought him out of anything short of a coma, but Tom's eyes remained shut and his breathing slow as Ed peeled off the stolen shirt.

He swallowed hard at the bruises and abrasions underneath, and Sloan put a hand to her mouth, holding back a sob. Ed had heard of this kind of systematic abuse, mostly in the context of prisoners of war or of politics. But none of the injuries he found appeared life-threatening. Ed decided to wait until Tom woke up for a more extensive examination.

"He seems to be okay, more or less," he told Sloan finally, pulling the comforter back up.

Sloan sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a gentle hand over Tom's hair. "More or less?"

"Well, I don't think he's in immediate danger," Ed clarified. "I think we can leave him here for the moment. But he's severely dehydrated, and he probably hasn't had anything to eat since he was taken." He tucked his stethoscope back into his bag, deciding not to call Sloan's attention to the deeper bruises on Tom's wrists and ankles. "I need to get some supplies for him."

Sloan nodded. "Sorry about the phone call," she said.

"No, I understand," Ed answered. "We can't let anybody know he's here. As it is, we'll probably have to move him tomorrow, before they come looking for him."

"How do you know they won't come tonight?"

Ed snapped the bag shut. "I don't. But I don't think it's safe to move him right now either. He's obviously on the ragged edge of exhaustion."

Sloan's mouth tightened at the danger, but there was little they could do. Her alarm system had not kept the abductors out before.

"Did he say anything about where he's been, or who might come looking for him?" Ed asked.

"He didn't want to talk about it," Sloan admitted.

Ed snorted. "I don't blame him."

While Ed was gone, Sloan sent a guarded e-mail to Walter and Ray, telling them the good news. She had a feeling they could use some.

A few minutes later Attwood's reply arrived.

_I don't think you have anything to fear from my ex-boss at the moment. Something is going on within that organization--we have not been able to discover just what it is as yet, but it appears to be pulling in enormous amounts of manpower. Nevertheless, I urge you three to get out of town as soon as possible. The safe house I told you about is still available, and I trust that you will not be so stubborn now that Tom is safe._

Sloan bit her lip to suppress a smile at Walter's admonitory tone. _He sounds like a teacher scolding a student...but he has a point._

Ed returned a couple of hours later with what seemed to Sloan to be enough supplies to set up a small clinic. "Where did you get all this?" she asked, helping him put an IV stand together.

"Trade secret," Ed replied, and hung a bag from the stand. "Hold his arm for me, will you?"

He cleaned and bandaged the worst of Tom's abrasions, noting with interest that there appeared to be no signs of infection. Finally he straightened, pulling off his gloves and smothering a yawn.

"You should go to bed," Sloan urged. "It's almost morning."

Ed looked down at their patient, and she could see the conflict in his face. "I'll watch him," she added. "I don't think I could sleep anyway."

"Okay," Ed conceded finally, and allowed himself to be tucked up in his sleeping bag. Sloan dimmed the lights and resumed her post next to Tom. She took his hand, feeling his fingers curl slightly around hers even in sleep, and smiled, heart overflowing with thankfulness.

* * *

 

Tom slept for hours, scarcely moving, much as he had after Sloan had rescued him from the basement of his childhood house. Ed, when he woke around noon, theorized that it was a more developed form of healing reflex; if an injured member of the new species knew himself to be safe, he would rebuild strength and speed repair through a deep sleep. He bent over his patient, examining the burns and scrapes. "Look how fast he's healing," he pointed out to Sloan. The lighter injuries were already fading. "One of us would take weeks to recover from this. I'll bet he'll be on his feet within a few days."

Sloan shook her head. "Still. They did terrible things to him." She sat down in the chair she had pulled up to the bed. "How could they? What could justify this kind of treatment?"

"Nothing," Ed returned grimly.

He retreated into the shower and Sloan busied herself making them lunch, finding her appetite for the first time since Tom had been taken. Over the meal, she told Ed about her conversation with Walter the night before.

"He's right," Ed agreed. "I don't want to try to move Tom until he wakes up at least; we know so little about his physiology, I'm shooting in the dark here. But if he continues at his current rate, we should be able to leave tomorrow, probably tomorrow night."

Sloan nodded and swallowed her last bite of sandwich. "I'll start packing, then, and you'd better do the same."

It was early evening when Tom stirred. Sloan, sitting by the bed and reading a scientific journal, heard his breathing change and looked up, taking his hand. Tom opened his eyes at her touch, blinking.

"How're you feeling?" Sloan said softly, smiling at him.

His grip tightened on her hand. "Not too good," he admitted, his voice still hoarse. "But better than I was."

Ed came up behind her, carrying a hypodermic. "Good to have you back, man," he told Tom, and slid the needle deftly into his arm.

"You people are always sticking me with something," Tom complained mildly, and Sloan giggled.

"Hey, you asked for the last set. Besides, this is just vitamins," Ed retorted. "Sloan, get the man some water."

Sloan complied, but Tom barely finished the glass before he sank back into sleep. Sloan caught her breath, worried, but Ed put a hand on her shoulder. "S'okay. That's natural. In fact, I'm surprised he woke up at all."

"You aren't sedating him, are you?"

"No way." Ed peeled off his gloves. "I don't know if they drugged him with anything, and I don't want any bad reactions. He's just exhausted."

"So am I," Sloan said, surprised. Adrenaline and joy had kept her alert all day, but all of a sudden all her energy seemed to drain away.

"Go to bed then. Doctor's orders," Ed said. Sloan obeyed and curled up next to Tom, careful of the IV line. She ignored Ed's raised eyebrow. She needed Tom's nearness almost as much as he needed hers.

* * *

 

Tom woke with a start, half sitting up. "Sloan?" he gasped. He was in her apartment, her bed, but she was nowhere to be seen. " _Sloan?_ "

Ed came into view in the other room. "Hey, Tom, relax. She's in the shower."

Tom let out his breath, panic subsiding, and became aware of stiffness and hurt. Ed walked over to the bed and took Tom's wrist, checking his pulse. "Want something for the pain?"

Tom shook his head, unwilling to muddle his head any further. The pain was negligible compared to the past few weeks, anyway.

Ed filled a glass from a carafe sitting next to the bed and handed it to Tom. "Drink up. You're almost completely rehydrated."

Tom took a few swallows, then looked up at the tall man. "Thank you," he said gravely, meaning more than just the water.

Ed shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I'm just glad you're okay." He wandered back into the living room, and Tom guessed from the rattling of keys that he was working on a computer project.

Tom sat back against the headboard, listening to the shower run, and trying to clear his head. He remembered waking, earlier, to find it nighttime; he had opened his eyes to see Sloan asleep not an arm's length away, hair in her eyes. Reassured, he had laced his fingers through hers and watched her, listened to her quiet breathing, until sleep had taken him again.

Now it was morning, and early, by the slant of the sun coming through the windows. He still felt drained, dangerously exhausted, almost ill, but he knew that his body was repairing itself. He suddenly wanted a shower himself, and equally suddenly wondered if he would be able to stand up that long.

Ed reappeared with his stethoscope, and Tom submitted patiently to his cursory examination. "So, what's the diagnosis?" he asked finally.

Ed sat back on the end of the bed. "You're better than you were; in fact, I think we can get rid of this." He pulled a gauze pad from his bag and carefully removed the IV line, bandaging Tom's arm neatly. "I want a closer look at some of your injuries, though, when Sloan gets out of the bathroom."

Tom thought about refusing, but realized that it probably wouldn't do any good.

Sloan emerged from her shower swathed in robe and towel, and gave him a brilliant smile. "How are you feeling?"

He smiled back, absorbing the sight of her. "Better," he said again.

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll fix us some breakfast after I get dressed," she said. Ed jerked his head toward the living room, and she nodded.

Tom's gaze followed her as she pulled clothes from her closet. When she closed the doors between her bedroom and living room, he blinked and looked back to Ed. "I want a shower," he said firmly.

"Checkup first," Ed countered. "Let's see some skin."

Tom had to give Ed credit; the doctor did not articulate his thoughts when he saw further evidence of what had been done to Tom, but his anger and disgust were almost palpable. The latter surprised Tom with its sting, but he waited until Ed was finished before mentioning it.

"I disgust you?" he asked, catching the doctor's gaze.

Ed blinked, looking startled. "What? Where'd you get that?"

"It's what you're feeling," Tom pressed.

Ed stared at him, confused; then his expression cleared. "Not you, dummy," he said, and punched Tom lightly on the shoulder. "The people who did this to you. Don't be stupid. Now c'mon, let's get you into that shower. Sloan will have food ready soon, and I want you to try eating a little."

The relief was also surprising, but he had no time to think about it as Ed helped him to his feet. Just walking the few feet to the bathroom left him shaky and breathless, even with the taller man's support. "I don't think I'll be able to stand that long," he said, eyeing the tub ruefully.

"Then take a bath," Ed said, tossed him a towel, and left.

Take a bath. He could not remember ever doing so. Showers were more efficient. On the other hand, it would be easier to keep his bandaged arm dry.

He had just eased himself into the warm water when Sloan knocked. "Tom? I'm leaving you some clean clothes outside the door."

"Okay," he answered absently. The small rubber waterfowl he had found in the soap dish bemused him.

"Shout if you need anything," she added, and he could hear her walking away.

Tom stayed in the bath longer than he had intended; while the water stung his wounds at first, immersion was surprisingly relaxing. His muscles were still cramped and sore from his imprisonment, but some of the knots loosened in the warmth. The clothes he found outside the door were his own, and he realized that one of the two must have retrieved his belongings from his motel room after he had been taken.

He managed to get dressed and back to Sloan's bed on his own, barely; Ed rebandaged a couple of places for him, then went back to the living room for something. Tom leaned against the pillows and watched Sloan moving around the kitchen. She smiled and laughed, teasing Ed, and he could almost see energy sparking from her. The odors of eggs and sausage reached him, a comfortable scent, mixed with the smell of clean sheets. Apparently Sloan had remade the bed while he was bathing. A heavy wave of fatigue washed over him, and he sighed and put his head back, puzzled by the feeling that warmed his insides. As he gave into sleep, he decided it must be contentment.

* * *

"Well, so much for breakfast," Sloan said, glancing into the bedroom. "He's fallen asleep again."

Ed forked another sausage onto his plate. "That's okay. Next time he wakes up, give him some of that chicken broth, and maybe a little toast if he thinks he's up to it." He waved toward the cans he'd brought with the medical supplies.

"Where are you going?" Sloan asked, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

"Going to gas up the van," Ed mumbled around a mouthful, then swallowed. "And pick up a few more things we might need. Walter's safe house is kinda far."

"Maybe we should take my car," Sloan said thoughtfully. "Yours is pretty distinctive."

Ed shook his head. "Not enough room. We can put down the seats in the camper so Tom can lie down in the back."

Sloan shrugged. "Your call. Is there anything else I can bring?" A small pile of bags already sat near the door; Sloan had packed for Tom as well as herself, but he did not have many possessions. It was hard to decide what they might need when they didn't know how long they'd be gone. _Or even if we'll ever make it back,_ Sloan thought with an inward shiver.

"Maybe make some sandwiches," Ed suggested. "There aren't a lot of fast food places the way we're going." He put his dishes in the sink and grabbed his jacket. "Back in a few hours."

"Be careful," Sloan cautioned, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

 

Sloan was shaking his shoulder gently, calling his name, tugging him out of the deep well of sleep.

"C'mon, Tom," she cajoled. "You need to wake up and eat something."

He opened his eyes. Sloan was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling down at him. Tom looked at her, reassuring himself that this was not another wrenching dream, and then on impulse slid closer and laid his head on her thigh. She said nothing, only put her hand on his head and began stroking his hair. He pressed his palm against her leg and listened to her heartbeat, strong and slow.

As usual, she was feeling a mix of emotions, and he tried to figure them out, with only partial success. The flooding warmth, sustaining and indescribable, that he had finally decided was love; a strange, bittersweet sorrow that made no sense to him at all; something brooding and protective, similar to what he felt when he watched her sleep; and a frisson of worry and fear. Then he let them all go and simply enjoyed the sensation of her fingers smoothing his hair, the scent of her skin, her very closeness.

Tears rose in Sloan's eyes when Tom put his head in her lap, but she did not let them fall. For a long while they sat in peace together; his face was turned away from her, but she watched him breathe and reveled in the fact that he was safe. She wondered if anyone--like his strange, cold mother--had ever comforted him when he was a child; or did the new species raise their children without any affection at all?

Finally, though, Tom sat up carefully, rising shakily to his knees. He looked at her a long moment, saying nothing, but that clear grey gaze seemed to see right into her heart. Then he leaned forward, braced his hands on the wall behind her head, and kissed her.

All thoughts of him as a child fled from her at the touch of his mouth, and she put her hands on his shoulders, trying to draw him closer. That unbearable, aching sweetness took her breath as it had the first time he had kissed her, and for an instant she remembered those peculiar, private, stolen moments in the shabby motel room. Then his mouth opened over hers, coaxing her deeper, and she let thought go entirely.

Tom shuddered as she gave herself willingly to him. Every step he took in this direction was a possible danger to the bond between them, but there was no trace of rejection in her, and her lips were so soft, so warm. He didn't want to stop--he wanted to lean even closer, to see how far she would surrender, to wind his fingers in her hair and drown in that complete acceptance. But his arms were already shaking under his weight. He let her go before they gave way and sat back reluctantly, watching her eyes slowly open and focus. He touched her lips with one gentle finger, and she smiled, rueful and amazed.

She had to swallow twice before she could speak. "You need to eat something," she finally managed, and he nodded. She rose to her feet, a little unsteady, and turned to pick up the tray that was sitting on her dresser. Behind her back, he ran his tongue over his lips, familiarizing himself with the taste of her again, before settling back against the headboard.

Sloan put the tray in his lap. He picked up the mug and sipped at the broth, feeling his shrunken stomach expand at the offering. Sloan sat crosslegged on the end of the bed.

"We have to leave soon," she told him. "Walter's found us a safe place to stay, but it's out in the desert and it will take us a long time to get there."

Tom set the mug down. "Where is Attwood?" he asked, and took a cautious bite of toast.

Sloan's smile faded, and she told him what had happened to Walter and Ray the night he'd been kidnapped. "They've been running ever since," she finished. "Walter says they have evidence of the government's actions for the press, but the time isn't right to release it yet."

"Others like me," Tom mused. "So many. I wonder if Shane found them."

"I'm surprised they didn't find you," Sloan said, but he shook his head.

"I would have been too dangerous for them to approach. And remember, you were what changed my mind."

Sloan's mouth curved shyly at that. He swallowed the last of the broth, and she rose. "Ed should be back very soon," she said. "Then we'll have to leave."

"Okay," he acknowledged, already sleepy again. Sloan bent to pick up the tray, and he touched her arm. "Stay with me for a while."

"Of course." She put the tray back on the dresser and returned to sit next to him, pulling the comforter up to his shoulders and tucking it in around him. He pulled one hand out of the cover and wrapped it around hers. She squeezed back gently, and he faded easily into sleep.

* * *

 

"The van's in the basement garage," Ed said, letting himself in the door. Sunset reddened the room with slanting light.

Sloan let out a long breath and pulled her favorite hat on over her ears. "You scared me," she said, a bit crossly.

"Government wouldn't have bothered to unlock the door," Ed retorted, picking up three of the bags. "You about ready?"

Sloan forbore to answer as he disappeared again. An itchy feeling had begun crawling up her spine over the last hour, and it was growing. She glanced over at her bed, but Tom was already awake.

"Where did you put the pistol?" he asked, sitting up carefully.

"Drawer by the bed." Sloan pointed, and Tom removed the weapon. Sloan stuffed a last few sandwiches into the cooler and put it near the door. "Is there anything you can think of that we'll need?"

Tom shook his head, looking faintly amused, and Sloan remembered that when they had fled from the police he had been ready to go with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. She, on the other hand, wanted a few more comforts if possible.

Ed came back in the door. "There's one more thing I want to do," he said, going over to his laptop. "Tom, I never got a last DNA reading from you. I know it's been too long, but I want to finish up the experiment."

"Are you sure we have time for this?" Sloan asked, but Tom ignored her, pushing up his sleeve.

"I want to get it done before we pack up the equipment," Ed answered, bending over Tom. "Who knows when we'll get another chance?"

"Have you been able to reconstruct the data?" Tom asked.

Ed shook his head, busy with his experiment. "Not really; we made a start at the UCLA lab, but we're basically starting over from scratch. There. This'll only take a minute."

Tom made his way slowly from the bedroom to the sofa. His strength was returning, but not quickly enough to suit him. Sloan came over and stood behind him, feeling protective, and he reached up and took her hand. Her itchy feeling went up another notch.

The machine beeped, and Ed rattled keys for a few seconds. Then his hands slid off the keyboard and he stared at the screen, speechless.

"What is it?" Sloan asked nervously. "Ed?"

Astonishment spread over the scientist's face. "That's...but you're..."

" _Ed_." Tom's voice was low, but it snapped Ed's head up to look at them.

"Tom..." he said finally. "Your DNA differential is still 1.4 percent."

They stared at each other, and a siren wailed in the distance, underscoring their silence. Sloan's fingers tightened on Tom's hand. _That's not possible..._


	2. Chapter 2

_That’s not possible,_ Sloan thought again, feeling Tom’s fingers returning the pressure of her own. She glanced down; his eyes met hers, and the intensity of his expression made her stomach flip, though she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. _How can he still be 1.4 percent?_

“I don’t get it,” Ed mumbled, beginning to type rapidly. “That can’t be right. I need to retest—”

“Later,” Sloan said, shaking off her stunned paralysis. “Right now we need to get out of here.”

A quick glance around her apartment reassured her that she had packed everything she thought she would need. Ed hesitated, then shut down his equipment and folded it up. The sound of the faint siren in the distance grew a little louder, then faded away.

“Ready?” she asked Tom softly, and he nodded. He rose stiffly to his feet and tucked the handgun he was holding into the waistband of his pants. The itching, driving feeling along Sloan’s spine was a combination of impatience and something else, some growing sense of urgency.

“Let’s go,” Ed said, grabbing the equipment bag and picking up two more. “Can you get the last two, Sloan?”

She scooped up the remaining bag and the cooler, then waited for Ed and Tom to pass by her and out the door. Hastily she closed and locked it, fingers fumbling in her haste. _I wonder when—if—when I’ll get back?_

When she and Tom got down to the garage, Ed already had the motor running; some of her urgency appeared to be infecting him. Sloan set her burdens on the floor of the van and slid the heavy door shut behind Tom, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Tom sat heavily down on the van’s folded-down bed, bracing himself. The Volkswagen’s engine swelled into an echoing roar as Ed drove up the ramp and out onto the street.

They had gone barely half a block, however, when Tom spoke sharply from the back. “Turn off the street!”

Ed braked, half turning to look back at him. “What?”

“Get off the street. There! Into that garage.” Tom pointed to the opposite side of the street, where another below-ground garage, similar to the one for Sloan’s building, housed shoppers’ vehicles.

Ed made an abrupt turn, and the van rolled down the ramp and into shadow. He pulled to a halt and swung around in his seat. “What’s the matter?”

Tom was looking out the back window, and both Sloan and Ed ducked their heads to look back up to the street. Sloan counted four cars zooming past, and she could hear the screech of tires as they halted further down the block. Faint shouts filtered past the windows. She and Ed traded sober glances.

“Looks like we got out just in time,” Sloan said, her scalp crinkling at the thought of how close that had been.

“Who’s that?” Ed asked, and Tom turned back to face them.

“I don’t know. But I think we’d better leave.”

Ed blew out his breath. “Yeah.” He put the van in gear and threaded it through the garage to the exit on the far side. It emptied out a block away from where they had entered—a fact, Sloan realized, that Tom had undoubtedly known when he had directed them in here.

Ed pulled cautiously onto the street, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and they made their way out of Sloan’s neighborhood without incident. Sloan looked back again to see Tom carefully stowing the handgun next to the bed, within easy reach.

“There are blankets in that cabinet,” she said, pointing. Tom shook his head, giving her a small smile, and pulled one of the pillows close before lying down. He seemed to fall asleep almost instantly, but Sloan watched him for a long time, reluctant to turn away. _Who was that in all those cars? Did the government come back to get Tom, or was that the new species?_

Finally she faced forward again. They were already on the highway, but while Sloan didn’t know exactly where they were going, she did know it would take them more than a day to get there. She settled back in her seat. “Ed?”

“Should have gone before we left,” he said, and she had to laugh.

“Not that,” she scolded, then sobered. “Ed—do you really think you got Tom’s test wrong?”

Ed hesitated so long that she had to look over at him. He was staring straight out through the windshield, as though fixing his gaze on something miles ahead of them. “No,” he said finally. “I’ll have to retest anyway, as part of the procedure, but, Sloan...”

“I know,” she said softly. “How do you think it happened?”

Ed shrugged and gave a humorless laugh. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe...maybe they did something to him while they had him, something he hasn’t told us about.”

 _He hasn’t told us anything,_ Sloan thought. “Do you really believe that?”

“No.”

“The government does have the serum now,” Sloan said thoughtfully, half to herself.

“But do they know what it is?” Ed countered. “Walter had me encrypt all my files, which should have slowed them down a little. And they may not have realized that we had begun human—uh—people testing.”

“If they used it on Tom, that could be why he’s still 1.4 percent,” Sloan theorized.

“Yeah, maybe.” Ed hunched a little, frustrated, his hands too tight on the steering wheel. “We’ll have to ask Tom anyway.”

Sloan glanced back, but Tom was still asleep. “He may not know. He was in such bad shape when he got back...”

Ed shot her a curious glance. “You think he might have lost some of his memory again?”

Sloan shrugged. “Traumatic events can leave gaps in anyone’s memory. And we don’t know what they did to him—he could have been unconscious for part of it.” She winced inwardly at the thought of the bruises and abrasions patterned over Tom’s body, then wrenched her mind onto another track. “So where are we going, exactly?”

* * *

Tom drifted in sleep, occasionally surfacing to the hum of the engine, the two voices—dark and light—talking at the front of the van. At one point, he realized vaguely, the van had stopped; he was chilled enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to wake up completely. Then someone—Sloan—tucked a blanket over him, touching his forehead gently before moving away. He sank gratefully back into warmth and oblivion.

He woke again later to the sound of his name. Sloan was kneeling next to the bed, face shadowed in the dim glow of the dome light.

“What is it?” he asked, voice a little rough with sleep.

“We’re stopping for the night,” she told him. “It’s about two in the morning, and Ed and I are wiped out. We’ve found a motel.”

Tom sat up. He was less exhausted than he had been that afternoon, but weariness still weighed him down, and he ached. Sloan slid out of the van’s open door, and Tom saw the parking lot beyond her. Wherever they were, it was someplace far from Pasadena. The asphalt shone with a greasy wetness under the lights, and he could see that the motel itself had not had the upkeep it needed. The air coming in the door was fresh but chilly with new rain.

He stumbled stepping out of the van, and Sloan caught his arm to keep him upright. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed, and angry at his weakness. Sloan looked at him a moment, then put her arms around him in a sudden hug. He returned it, surprised to feel her trembling beneath her jacket.

“Tom—” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. “When I thought you might be dead—”

His arms tightened. “Shhh. No, it’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here now.” That incredible sweetness swept through him at her words. No one had ever cared whether he lived or died, except as far as it advanced the agenda of his species. But this amazing woman shed tears over his fate, and gave him her heart unreservedly. He buried his face in her hair for a moment, that strange joy again coursing through his veins. Finding her asleep in her apartment had been a staggering relief, and he hung onto the knowledge that she was still safe—as safe as she could be, anyway.

Behind Sloan, the motel room door opened, and Ed peered out. Tom looked up sharply, expecting to see disapproval, but Ed’s expression was soft, almost protective. Still, there was a hint of impatience in his voice. “C’mon, guys. I need to check Tom before we crash.”

Sloan turned her head. “Be right there,” she answered.

“Don’t forget the cooler,” Ed added, and shut the door again.

Tom released her, but kept one hand on her arm as he reached back inside for the handgun. Sloan pulled out the cooler and slid the van door shut with a slam.

The room was indeed rather sleazy around the edges, but it was tolerably clean. A pair of twin beds, a cheap television, a scarred table and two chairs, and a battered dresser made things a little crowded. Sloan set down the cooler and began pulling out food. She offered Tom a piece of fruit, but he looked at it with distaste. “I hate bananas.”

She gave him a wry look. “Then have a sandwich.”

He didn’t feel hungry, but he knew he had to eat something. His metabolism was too high for him to go without food for so long, even with the restoring sleep. He selected a sandwich that revealed itself to be ham and cheese, and munched his way through it. Ed and Sloan ate with the same indifference, and he could see how tired they were.

Tom was fighting sleep by the time Ed finished eating. The doctor stood up and picked up his bag, and Tom rose reluctantly to follow him into the bathroom. He knew Ed meant no harm, but he still hated being so vulnerable.

Tom sat on the edge of the tub as Ed cleaned the deeper wounds and rebandaged them. “Is this kind of sleeping normal for your species?” Ed asked, busy with gauze. “I mean, if you’re hurt?”

“Yes. It’s a way to rebuild stamina.” He rubbed the side of his head, trying to stay awake. “It shouldn’t last much longer.”

“You’re healing at an incredible rate,” Ed noted.

“That’s normal for us,” Tom admitted.

Ed whistled softly and peeled off his gloves. “All done,” he said. “Are you in any pain?”

“Not much,” Tom said, stretching the truth a little. Actually, his muscles ached and the cuts burned and throbbed, but again it was nothing in comparison to before. He looked up to see Ed’s raised eyebrow. “I’m fine.”

“Your call.” Ed closed his bag. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Tom opened the bathroom door to find Sloan sound asleep, stretched out on the sleeping bag between the two beds. Behind him, Ed made a disparaging noise. “I told her I’d take the floor tonight...”

“That’s not necessary.” Tom bent and lifted her onto one of the beds, ignoring the complaints of his abused body. She didn’t wake. Tom sat down next to her and kicked off his shoes.

Ed shook his head and switched off the light before sprawling onto the other bed. Tom lay down behind Sloan and put one arm over her, pulling her close until her warm back pressed against his chest. He drew the blanket over them both and let himself drop into sleep.

* * *

Sloan gradually became aware that her cheek was resting not on a pillow, as she expected, but on something warmer and firmer. She opened her eyes to find herself looking down the length of the bed. Her head was pillowed on Tom’s blanket-covered chest, rising and falling gently with his breathing, and his arm was slung over her shoulders.

Carefully, she turned her head so she could look the other way, and blinked blearily. Tom was sound asleep, his face as composed as it was when he was awake, and she slid out from under his arm. He frowned a little but did not wake. Ed was on the other bed, also dead to the world, and Sloan tiptoed into the bathroom for a shower.

The hot water served to wake her up a little. It had been a bit of a shock to find herself in the bed instead of on the floor next to it, but rather comforting as well. She recalled Tom’s sleeping, and realized suddenly that he had no beard growth—yet, as far as she knew, he had not shaved since his escape. The new species was not without facial hair—Lewis had sported a silvery beard—but perhaps it grew more slowly. Then her growling stomach distracted her.

When she emerged, Ed was awake. He grunted sleepily and dove into the shower while Sloan hunted up a comb to take the tangles out of her hair. She also took a surreptitious look out through the curtains, but all seemed to be peaceful in the early morning light. No mysterious vehicles were parked in the lot, no armed men stalked the sidewalk. _Not that I think they’d wait for us to come out!_

“I’ll go get some breakfast,” Sloan said softly when Ed came out of the bathroom, but he shook his head.

“No, let me do it. Tom nearly freaked when he woke up yesterday and you were in the shower. I don’t want to find out what he’d do if you were gone.”

Sloan blinked, a bit taken aback, but nodded acquiescence. Ed grabbed his jacket and put a hand on the doorknob, then paused. “Does Tom like coffee?” he hissed quietly.

“Coffee’s fine,” Tom said, eyes still shut. “Black.”

Ed grinned and left. Tom opened his eyes, and Sloan smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

He sat up carefully, but more easily than the day before. “I should get up anyway,” he said, and swung his feet onto the floor.

“How are you feeling?” Sloan asked gently.

He looked up at her, and she could see that the bruises that marred his face were fading. “I’m okay,” he said cautiously.

“Well, you have time for a shower if you want one,” Sloan told him.

Tom picked up the handgun from the table next to the bed. “Do you know how to use this?” he asked, holding it out to her.

“I hate guns,” she protested, but he caught her gaze.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here without some protection,” he said evenly. “I’ve seen you handle one before.” 

 _Yeah, and my hands were shaking so hard I’m surprised I didn’t fire it accidentally,_ she thought, but took the weapon reluctantly. Tom pointed out the safety to her, then went into the bathroom, leaving her staring at the gun with revulsion.

He came out just as Ed arrive, bearing coffee and many donuts. Breakfast took only minutes; then Sloan and Tom loaded the van while Ed checked out of the motel. He had apparently decided that Tom was healed enough to not need new bandages, Sloan noted.

They headed out into the grey morning, with Sloan and Ed taking turns driving while Tom slept in the back. Sloan found herself watching almost obsessively for signs of pursuit, but she saw no suspicious vehicles trailing them. Ed was sunk in some thoughtful, silent mood, and she didn’t feel much like talking herself.

The day seemed to stretch out as endlessly as the road before them. Tom woke on his own when they made their brief stops, which encouraged Sloan; he no longer had to be pulled out of that deep unconsciousness. They went from superhighway to four-lane road to two-lane, heading further away from the city and deeper into scrubland that was tending toward desert.

* * *

Sunset found them setting up camp in a secluded, hilly spot off a rutted side road. Sloan and Ed raised the big tent that Ed had purchased to replace the smaller ones left behind in Mexico; Tom started a fire with his usual efficiency. By the time it was well-lit, Ed was hunched over the map Walter had e-mailed, frowning.

“There’s a spring around here somewhere, according to this, but I can’t find it. —Any luck, Sloan?” he called over his shoulder.

Sloan came back from a quick reconnaissance. “Nothing. Maybe it’s gone underground.”

Ed’s frown grew deeper. “Do we have enough water without it?”

Sloan grimaced. “Barely.”

Tom rose from his crouch next to the fire and walked a few yards away, then began to circle their campsite slowly.

“What is it?” Sloan asked, watching him.

Tom did not answer, but he did not reach for the handgun tucked into his belt, so Sloan didn’t think anyone was approaching. Then he stopped, turned, and headed away. “Bring the shovel,” he said, moving more quickly.

Sloan snatched up the tool and followed. Tom led her some fifty yards away to a small depression in the sandy ground that was fringed by greenery. “There.” He pointed, then took the shovel from her. A few easy spadefuls, and the hollow he had dug began to fill with cloudy water.

“It should clear up in a little while,” he said. Sloan stared down at the spring, then back to him.

“How did you know it was there? I walked right past this spot.”

“I could smell the water,” he said calmly, and took her hand. “Come on.”

Ed was still studying the map when they returned. “We should be able to get there before dark tomorrow, if we start early,” he said, looking up, and Sloan was startled at how tired he looked.

 _He’s been under as much strain as I have,_ she thought, _and he’s probably gotten as little sleep._ “Tom found the water,” she told him.

“That’s great.” Ed folded the map back up.

Tom drove the blade of the shovel into the ground, leaving it standing upright. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

Sloan lifted the back hatch of the van and opened the cooler. “I got some hamburger meat and buns when we stopped this afternoon.” She lifted out the packages, but Tom took them from her.

“I’ll do it.” He carried them over to their makeshift table, leaving her staring after him. Then she shook her head and began rummaging for the fruit.

Full dark arrived as Tom cooked the burgers, and they gathered around the fire to eat. Sloan licked ketchup from her fingers and glanced over at Ed, who was staring blankly at his half-eaten burger. “You okay?”

Ed blinked and glanced up. “Yeah. I’m just tired.” He resumed eating.

Sloan picked up an apple and a knife and began peeling off the skin in a long curl. “Did Walter tell you anything about this safe house? What it’s like?”

“Nah. All I know is that he’s pretty sure it’s secure.”

“Does it have laboratory facilities?” Tom asked.

“We can hope.” Sloan turned the apple in her hand. “But the further out here we get, the less likely I think it is.”

“Shoot.” Ed ran a hand through his hair. “I gotta see if I can send a message to my friend at UCLA. He’s going to wonder what happened to me.”

“Maybe he can finish the research on his own,” Sloan suggested, and grinned as the last of the peel came loose.

Ed snorted as she held it up. “Show-off. —Maybe he can, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” He shook his head to the apple slice she proffered.

She held it out to Tom, who accepted it. “Well, the more people we have working on it, the better.”

“What difference does it make?” Ed demanded, frustrated. “The serum doesn’t even work!”

“Yes, it does,” Tom corrected quietly. “Just not completely. Yet.”

An awkward silence settled on the group. Finally Ed heaved a sigh and stood up. “I’m going to bed. We should get up early tomorrow.” He vanished into the tent.

“You don’t want any marshmallows?” Sloan called after him, but a hand waving “no” out the door was all the answer she got.

“Marshmallows?” Tom asked curiously.

Sloan rummaged in the grocery bag next to her. “Sure. They’re a traditional camping food.”

Tom watched in bemusement as she demonstrated the procedure for s’mores. “Vanilla wafers are actually better,” she explained, handing him one graham cracker-chocolate sandwich, “but the store was out of ‘em.”

Tom took a cautious bite as Sloan skewered two more marshmallows and held them over the low flames. His brows shot up at the crumbly mouthful, and Sloan giggled at his expression. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

Tom swallowed. “No, it’s good,” he said, a bit stickily, and took another bite. Sloan grinned and turned her attention back to her skewer.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said finally, constructing her own sandwich.

He took the stick and pulled more marshmallows from the bag. “You never asked.”

Sloan glanced up; that little smile was playing around the corners of his mouth, and she knew he was teasing her. She sighed happily. It was so good to have him back safe.

By the time they finished dessert, Ed was snoring softly in the tent and the fire had died down to coals and a few licks of flame. When Tom noticed Sloan shivering in the deepening chill, he retrieved a blanket from the van, then sat down next to her and wrapped it around both of them. Sloan savored the weight of his arm across her shoulders, and realized that he had been awake for several hours and showed no signs of falling back into that deep sleep. She stared into the flames for a little while before speaking.

“What happened to you, Tom?”

He was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer. Finally he took in a long breath and let it out again. “I’m not really sure.”

Sloan waited a moment. “Ed was wondering if they gave you another shot of the experimental serum,” she said finally. “That could explain why you’re still at 1.4 percent.”

“They didn’t inject me with anything. At least not while I was conscious,” Tom said, and Sloan shuddered at the picture his words conjured up. His arm tightened. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked in a low voice.

“No,” Sloan admitted, “I don’t want to hear it. But I have to.” She slipped her arm around his waist, lightly, remembering the wounds that were hidden under his dark sweater. “Tell me.”

One side of his mouth twitched. “They put me in a cage, and sometimes they hurt me...it was so cold.” He paused. “They wouldn’t give me enough water. They never asked me anything, so they didn’t want information. They never said anything to me at all. I guess they wanted to see what would happen to me.”

Sloan choked back a sob at his quiet words. She knew how much he hated the idea of being a lab animal, yet his abductors had made him exactly that.

“Sloan...” He slid his hand along her jaw and turned her face toward him. “Why are you hurting? It’s over now.”

Sloan covered his hand with her own, pressing it to her cheek. “Because you were hurt,” she managed, voice foggy with tears. “Because they did awful things to you, and I couldn’t even find you.”

Tom looked straight into her eyes, and as always she was caught in that intense grey, deepened now by the firelight to a shadowy blue. “You tried to find me,” he said, framing her face in his hands and brushing away her spilling tears. “I felt you looking for me.”

Sloan blinked away wetness. “It wasn’t enough...”

He shook his head. “You gave me hope,” he said simply.

Sloan swallowed, then leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted of smoke and chocolate, and his palms slid from her face to her shoulders, pulling her closer. The dangerous electricity of him spread down her spine, and she put her arms around him, aware once more of his strength, his solidity. The pain she felt for him dissolved at his touch, washed away in a flood of sensation.

There was desperation in the way he kissed her back, as though he felt a hunger he thought could not be satisfied. One of his gentle, deadly hands slid up into her hair while the other circled her waist and pressed her against him. He could kill so easily—yet she’d never felt so safe.

Finally he dragged his mouth from hers, turning the embrace into a hug. “You gave me life,” he said, voice hoarse in her ear. “You are my life.”

Sloan heart hurt with the weight of her emotion. “Tom, I love you,” she whispered. His hold spasmed tighter at her words, almost painfully, but she made no protest. The spicy, comforting smell of him filled her nostrils, and his short hair prickled against her cheek. They each drew in ragged breaths, and Sloan feared to let him go. _This is what they’ve done to us_ , she thought. _Now I will always be afraid of losing him._

* * *

_“Excerpts from the private journal of a mad scientist”—well, it’s an amusing conceit, anyway._

_Updates are gonna be irregular for a while, it looks like. This isn’t going to be our normal kind of road trip._

_Tom’s back—still don’t know how he got away—and he’s a mess. It’s one of those things I have trouble with: I’m a doctor, but all I want to do is kill the people who tortured him. And it was torture. Brutal, methodical torture. Looks to me like they, whoever “they” are, were trying to figure out just how much Tom, or_ Homo dominant _, could take. He hasn’t said much, and frankly I can’t blame him, though I can’t help wondering just how traumatized he is. He was gone for weeks. Hopefully Sloan can help him. It’s pretty clear she was what kept him going._

_I’m not even going to touch the dreams. I’m too tired to think about them right now._

_I don’t know if Tom would think it was funny, but something in me appreciates it. All the data that they collected is probably wrong. I really don’t think the government gave him the serum, and even Tom didn’t know he wasn’t reverting all the way. They think they were studying_ Homo dominant _. I don’t know how much difference it’ll make, if any, but whatever conclusions they make from that data are going to be inaccurate._

_Going to wrap up now. Can barely keep my eyes open._

* * *

Tom woke to the soft sounds of breathing. He shook his arm free of the sleeping bag and glanced at his faintly-glowing watch. Dawn was perhaps a half-hour away, and he was indisputably awake.

He rolled over. Sloan slept only a foot away, one hand curled on the tent floor; he had fallen asleep with her fingers clasped in his, but obviously had let go sometime during the night. Gently, he tucked her hand back inside her sleeping bag; the air was chilly and he did not want her to wake. Then he slid out of his own bag and left the tent.

His breath smoked in the cold, and he zipped up his jacket and lit a new fire before starting a pot of coffee. Then he wrapped the blanket around himself and sat down. It was the first time, aside from bathing, that he had been alone since his escape. He was used to solitude, though he didn’t like it; still, it gave him time to think.

Tom wondered if Sloan and Ed had thought beyond reaching the safe house. The two scientists had lost their jobs, their lab, and all their research, and now were cut off from their former lives; Ed had barely made a start on reconstructing the serum data, and now even that work was interrupted. Their confederates were fugitives from the law, as was Tom himself; he had no doubt that there were federal agents out looking for their escapee. And Sloan and Ed still carried the condemnation of the new species. They were a threat, and sooner or later there would be another attempt to eliminate them. Tom didn’t think Ed would be given another chance to betray his species, not after the Alaska fiasco.

He understood Ed’s drive, and Sloan’s determination. The upheaval of their lives would not deter them; they would want to keep fighting, however they could. If the safe house did not present the opportunity to do so, they would leave it and go somewhere to continue the fight.

 _Maybe this peace faction can help,_ he thought. _If there are as many as they claim, they must have scientific facilities somewhere._ Maybe they should leave the country. He knew a few tricks that could get them through hostile borders and away, which would reduce the threat from the feds at least.

Tom sighed and poked at the fire. The next step hinged on the safe house, whatever else came after. Attwood might have a plan as well.

He poured a cup of coffee and sipped, listening to the night. The stars faded silently overhead, and he felt the phantom prickle of his tattoo and wondered what it meant, what it had to do with leadership. What was to happen in October? What had the Lynch clone meant by “familiar faces?” What had the passing of the comet to do with anything?

Grey light was creeping over the ground when Tom heard Ed emerge from the tent. The taller man stretched, yawned, grumbled, and padded over to the fire, homing in on the scent of coffee. He drank half a cup before he focused on Tom. “How’re you feeling?”

“Are you asking as a scientist, or a doctor?” Tom returned.

Ed gave him a long look. “Both,” he said. “And a friend.”

Tom smiled a little. “Better,” he acknowledged. “I’m not so stiff.”

“Good.” Ed crouched in front of the fire, poking it up. “We should probably leave as soon as it gets a little lighter.”

“Will Ray or Walter be at the safe house?”

“No idea.” Ed straightened and refilled his cup, then held up the coffeepot in wordless question. Tom shook his head, and Ed put the pot back near the fire. “D’you want to wake her, or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” Tom said, rising. “You see if there’s anything for breakfast.”

Ed grunted into his coffee as Tom went back into the tent. Sloan had balled up; there was little showing outside the sleeping bag besides some tangled curls. He peeled back the edge of the bag until he could see her face. There was a smudge of ash on her cheek, and her expression was just a little sad. “Sloan,” he said softly.

She did not respond, and he smoothed away the smudge with his thumb and repeated her name.

She inhaled, then opened her eyes and smiled at him sleepily. His heart turned over in his chest, and he took the hand she held out. “It’s time to get up,” he told her.

Sloan grimaced. “Morning already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sat up and stretched. “I hate sleeping on the ground,” she said absently, and put on the jacket she’d been using for a pillow. “This safe house had better have hot water.”

Tom began rolling up his sleeping bag; Ed’s already sat, a fat roll, near the entrance. Sloan sighed, extricated herself, and folded up her own bag. Finding her hat underneath, she put it on and silently promised her hair a brush as soon as they were underway.

“Breakfast!” Ed called, and Sloan gave Tom a horrified look.

“You let _him_ cook?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Tom asked, baffled.

Sloan just shook her head and ducked out of the tent. Ed was busy at their makeshift table, and she walked over.

“I heard that,” Ed said, mildly indignant, and handed her a sandwich. “Even I can’t mess up peanut butter and jelly.”

Sloan grinned at him. “What about that time when you—”

“Shut up,” he said. “Or you don’t get any coffee.”

Sloan laughed and picked up a mug, taking it and her sandwich over to the fire. “I hate morning people,” she heard Ed grumbling behind her.

* * *

Their third day of journeying seemed as endless as their second, though Tom now took a turn driving, after Ed showed him how to find reverse in the Volkswagen. Between shifts they each took turns catnapping as well; the past weeks had taken a toll on Sloan and Ed as well as Tom, and the long drive was tiring.

Sloan even fell asleep in the passenger seat, while Ed was at the wheel and Tom was napping in the back. She found herself in a vivid, unrestful dream, chasing something unseen through the house her parents used to live in. Suddenly she was in an empty room, and a door opened behind her.

“Well, Doctor Parker,” said a deep voice behind her, and she spun to face Lewis.

“Not you again,” she said angrily, knowing she should be afraid of him but feeling only fury.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, smiling slightly, as though he knew the answer and only wanted to see what lie she might make up.

“You hurt Tom,” she shouted at him, wanting to hit him. But the heavy lassitude of dreams held her all but immobile.

He displayed the syringe he held in one hand. “It was important,” he told her. Sloan tried again to move, but only succeeded in jerking herself awake.

She shivered, feeling weary and vaguely ill. Ed glanced over. “You okay?”

Sloan rubbed a hand over her face, trying to wipe away the strength of the nightmare. “Yeah. Just a bad dream.” She twisted in the seat to look back at Tom, but he was sound asleep.

 _That was weird. I wonder what happened to Lewis. Did they do the same things to him that they did to Tom?_ She realized that she still didn’t know how Tom had escaped.

But in the late afternoon the sun broke through the heavy clouds, lifting their spirits a little, and they bounced off the narrow highway and onto a gravel road. It went on for several miles, winding through sandy hills and eventually petering out into a rutted track.

Sloan braked to a halt and peered uncertainly through the windshield. “I don’t know about this.”

Ed got up from the back and stuck his head in between the front seats to look. “Oh, she can take it. You want me to drive?”

“I think you’d better.” They switched places, Sloan making sure to fasten her seatbelt tightly. The ride was going to be bumpy.

In fact, Sloan was sure several times that the road—if it could be called that—was going to knock some of the parts off of the Volkswagen’s underside. But Ed showed no concern as he guided the van in a slow, lurching path along the way. Tom, in the passenger seat, braced one hand against the dashboard and studied the map with the other.

Sunset was reddening what little vegetation there was when they finally broke out into a level area. Ed stopped the van and they all stared in disbelief. “Oh, come on, Walter,” Ed muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The battered fence’s gate hung open; the rusty sign fastened to it read “Property of the Federal Government—No Trespassing”. Beyond it was a long, low, grey concrete building, looking as though it had not been inhabited for twenty years. Half the windowpanes were broken or gone, and the rest were cloudy with dust. A cracked and crumbling driveway led from the gate and around the far end.

Ed turned to Tom. “Do we have the right place?” he demanded.

Tom looked down at the map and then back up again. “There’s no other place to go,” he said, frowning at the dreary landscape. “We followed the directions correctly.”

“Hey!” Sloan pointed. “There’s somebody coming.”

A figure, anonymous with distance and a heavy jacket, had appeared near the furthest end and was hurrying toward them. Sloan realized the gun was in Tom’s hand, though she had not seen him reach for it.

But the figure quickly revealed itself as the stocky form of Ray Peterson. He waved; Sloan slid open the door and jumped out, followed by the two men. The ex-detective enveloped Sloan in a warm hug. “You made it!” he exclaimed. “We were starting to worry.”

“I’m so glad you’re safe!” She drew back to get a better look at him. “Where’s Walter?”

“Inside.” Ray exchanged a back slap with Ed. “I’ll show you in a minute.” He held out a hand to Tom, who took it with a faint air of surprise. “You okay?”

Tom returned the firm grip. “I am now.”

“Good.” Ray nodded, then gestured down the driveway. “There’s a loading bay down at that end. You can park the van inside next to my car.”

“Okay.” Ed climbed back into his vehicle. The others stepped off the driveway as he drove slowly past, and then they followed.

“What is this place?” Sloan asked.

Ray shrugged. “Some kind of abandoned Cold War facility. Walter said it was used as a secret base for a while after it was officially shut down, but no one’s been out here for years.”

“Have you heard from your family?” Sloan said, concerned, but Ray smiled.

“They made it to Grace’s sister’s without any problems. I’ve told them to sit tight for now.”

“You’re not joining them?” Tom asked, but the older man shook his head.

“Not yet. I’m needed here—and as long as I know they’re okay...” His casual tone belied the deep concern in his eyes.

“Wait a minute,” said Sloan. “If this is a government facility, what are you guys doing here? Won’t they check their own bases?”

Ray chuckled. “Not according to Attwood. He claims that this would be one of the last places they’d look. They won’t think he’d be so bold as to come here.”

“Or so stupid,” Tom muttered, and Ray grimaced in agreement.

“It doesn’t make much sense to me either, but I’m just following orders.”

“How did you know we were here?” Tom asked.

Ray grinned at him. “Security system. Doesn’t keep people out, but we know when somebody’s coming.”

The younger man frowned. “I didn’t see anything.”

“That’s the point.” Ray waved as Ed emerged from the building. “Stay there!” he bellowed.

“Our stuff’s still in the van,” Ed said as the three drew near.

“You can unload in a minute,” Ray answered. “C’mon inside.”

He unlocked a heavy door set deep in the wall of the building and pushed it open, leading them into a small, dim chamber. “Down the stairs,” he directed, flipping a switch. A brighter light illuminated a staircase, fortunately in better repair than the outside.

The door at the bottom swung open at their approach, and they filed in to find Walter holding it open, his usual sardonic expression softened by a smile. “Glad you could make it,” he said dryly.

Sloan grinned, but then her eyes widened as she looked past him. The door led into a well-equipped, brightly-lit laboratory—not as roomy as the labs at the university, and it lacked some of the most advanced equipment, but still much more than she had dared to hope for. “Walter!” Sloan exclaimed. “Where did you get all this?”

“Most of it was already here,” Attwood said, satisfaction crinkling his eyes as they filed in. “We did bring a few things with us, but we didn’t have much time.”

Ed whistled softly at the array. “This is good stuff. And you’ve got the power to run it?”

Attwood nodded. “There’s a generator—as long as we don’t turn everything on at once we should be all right.”

Sloan turned back to the older man and surprised him with a hug. “Never mind the lab. You’re okay, right?”

Walter returned her hug gently, looking touched. “I’m fine, Sloan. Just fine.”

Tom looked up from his silent inspection of an autoclave. “So what’s the next move?”

“Getting your stuff out of the van,” Ray said.

“We’ll talk over dinner,” Walter added. “Ray will show you where to put your things. Tom, may I see you for a minute?”

Sloan glanced at Walter, then over at Tom. “I’ll get your bags,” she said, and led Ed and Ray out of the lab and back up the stairs.

Tom watched the door swing shut behind them and then turned to Walter. The older man was obviously uncomfortable, and Tom picked up elements of shame from him, a strong current of guilt.

“What’s the matter?” he asked quietly, puzzled.

“Tom, I—” Walter sighed, and took off his glasses, looking distracted. “I want to apologize.”

“For what?” Tom leaned against one of the lab tables and folded his arms across his chest.

“For what happened to you.”

Tom frowned. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping.”

Attwood shook his head. “Not directly, perhaps. But if I hadn’t been so gullible, it might not have happened. I shouldn’t have trusted my...boss...as far as I did.” He rubbed his eyes. “I should have expected something like that, but I didn’t even warn you.”

“You were a little busy,” Tom pointed out. “If I’d been faster, they might not have succeeded. But I was distracted by the changes caused by the serum.” He cocked his head. Walter was usually self-contained and hard to read, probably deliberately so. But the guilt the scientist was feeling was tinged strongly with concern, and Tom felt a subtle warmth in his own heart. It seemed that Walter worried about him as well as Sloan and Ed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he told Attwood firmly. “I knew there were risks in working with you, and I accepted those risks. Don’t blame yourself.”

He held out a hand, and Walter took it, a surprised smile edging onto his face. The scientist’s grip was strong, and Tom could feel his distress easing. “Thank you,” Walter said softly.

Tom nodded understanding, then raised a brow. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Right this way.” Walter led him out through another door and into a hallway.

“How big is this complex?” Tom asked.

“About as large as the building above it,” Walter said over his shoulder as they walked. “There are a few exits up into the building itself, but we probably won’t be using them much.”

Tom followed him into another room the size of the laboratory, this one set up as a kitchen and dining area. The rich scent of soup wove through the room, and Tom’s hunger sharpened. His body was still demanding extra nourishment to make up for the weeks of deprivation.

The big round table was already set for five. Attwood opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. “Put this on the table, would you?”

Tom took the heavy container and put it in its place, then looked up. The other three had returned, laden with bags, and were walking down the hallway past the kitchen’s open door.

“There’s a bathroom at the end,” he heard Ray say. “The bedrooms are nothing fancy, but at least you can each have one to yourselves.”

A few minutes later they were all seated around the table, passing around a basket of bread and filling their glasses. Walter settled his napkin on his lap and sighed. “Well, now that we’re all here...”

The others gave him their attention, divided as it was by the food. “So, what’s this place like?” Ed asked, stirring his soup.

“Small,” muttered Ray, but Walter ignored him.

“This is an abandoned quasi-military facility, once used to monitor nearby missile caches and later for secret biological experiments, before the federal government wrote it off as too expensive to maintain. Don’t worry,” he said to Sloan, who had wrinkled her nose worriedly at the phrase _biological experiments_ , “there was never any contamination. In fact, I believe their work was much like that of our own lab.”

“How’d you know about it?” Tom asked.

“Oh, I stumbled across a mention of it in some old files,” Walter said airily. “Though, I admit, I never thought it would come in so handy. Now, Ed, what progress have you made on your serum?”

The younger man glanced across the table at Tom for permission and received a small nod. Sloan set down her spoon and took Tom’s hand beneath the table as Ed began to recount his experiments with the serum and their results. Walter’s interest sharpened as Ed wound down with the revelation that Tom was still at 1.4 percent.

“You’ve not had a chance to retest, I take it?” Walter asked Ed, though he was looking at Tom.

Ed shook his head, and Walter grimaced. “Blast. And all the data gone.” The older scientist drew in his breath, and Tom prepared for a spate of orders. But then Walter hesitated and sighed, and his expression grew less intense. “Will you consent to a retest, Mr. Daniels?”

Startled by the courtesy, Tom blinked, then nodded.

“But not tonight,” Sloan said firmly. “Walter, we’re all tired. We can start again in the morning.”

Tom squeezed her hand, grateful for her concern. Ray had an odd expression on his face as he regarded Tom, but he forbore to speak.

Walter nodded in concession, and Ed turned to Tom. “Hey, if you don’t mind my asking...how did you get away from the feds?”

Sloan shot Tom a quick glance, but he did not seem offended by the question. “They were careless,” he said calmly. “They gave me an opportunity, and I took it.”

From the looks on Ed’s and Ray’s faces, they were dying to know more, but Tom merely picked up his spoon and began eating again. Ed finally shrugged. “So, how did your car get all shot up like that?” he asked Ray.

The discussion turned to Ray and Walter’s adventures and devolved into a friendly argument between Ray and Ed about the merits and flaws of Volkswagens, with Sloan teasing them both. Walter looked on with a small smile on his face, but Tom could see the exhaustion that shadowed his eyes, and he felt the constant drone of worry that underlay Attwood’s thoughts.

* * *

Sloan had put Tom’s bags into the small room next to hers, and Ed had taken the one just down the hall. They were all identical—tiny, windowless, and possessed only an army cot and an empty footlocker. After dinner, Sloan rummaged for her shower kit and retreated to the bathroom for a proper wash. Fortunately, the base had its own generous well and the power to heat the water. When she emerged, pink from scrubbing and feeling much better, she found that Tom had moved his things and his cot into her room, and was sound asleep an arm’s length from her makeshift bed. Sloan could see the gun lying near the head of his cot, within easy reach.

She had to smile, and swallowed against a rush of tenderness. _I guess he’s appointed himself my guardian again._ She sat down on her cot and began working the tangles out of her hair, very glad that he was there. They had scarcely been apart since he had returned, and she knew that he did not like being away from her any more than she liked it.

Her thoughts ranged back over time as she combed, and she wondered when it was she had stopped being afraid of Tom. Sometime between the sudden pressure of his hand over her mouth, and Detective Peterson’s exasperated query that awful night at the hospital; but she didn’t know just when her fear had vanished. Sitting at the back door of the ambulance, she had looked over at the slender man who stood with his arms folded—obviously putting up with the police who guarded him because he chose to play by the rules. Impatient, wary...waiting on her, she had realized later. Waiting to see what she would do, what she would tell the angry man who watched his subordinate leave the hospital in a body bag.

When he’d slipped out of her apartment that first wrenching night, he had left her shivering and confused and aching for his aloneness. Yet her burning desire to _know_ had won out and she had followed him, pestered him for information he did not want to give her. She’d still been a little afraid of him then, she recalled; yet, later, when he had told her about his species’ sense for emotions, she had seen in his face that he was surprised at her lack of fear.

Perhaps it was when he had come dropping down the hospital stairwell like some dark angel in a trenchcoat, stepping between her and the horror that called itself Randall Lynch. Maybe it was when Lynch fled down the stairs, pursued by the security guard, and she had bent over Tom to see if Lynch had hurt him—and his eyes had run quickly over her to make sure she was all right. Perhaps it was then that she knew that she had nothing more to fear from him.

She yawned hugely and got up to turn out the light.

* * *

Sloan came awake, opening her eyes to the velvet blackness of the room, and wondered what had roused her. A faint bar of light delineated the bottom of the door, and she sat up quietly, straining her senses. Then a low gasp came from Tom’s cot.

Sloan fumbled hastily for the flashlight she’d put under her bed. Switching it on, she pointed it upward so the light diffused off the ceiling, and looked over at Tom. He was obviously asleep, but as she watched, his breathing roughened. _Nightmare,_ Sloan realized, and stood. Leaning over Tom, she shook his shoulder gently. “Tom,” she murmured, trying not to startle him. “Wake up.”

He made a convulsive movement and sat up, grabbing her wrist in a grip tight enough to bruise. His eyes were huge in the dim light, and he blinked twice before they focused on her.

“Tom?” she asked, trying not to wince, and he started and let her go.

“Sloan—” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” she said, sitting down on the edge of his cot. “You were dreaming.”

He blinked again and let out a deep breath. “It was the cage—I couldn’t—” he said, not very coherently.

“It’s okay, Tom,” Sloan said again, trying to calm him. “It’s over now.”

Tom closed his eyes, and she could see his control returning. When he opened his eyes again, she smiled, and he reached out and touched her face lightly, as though to reassure himself that she was real.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No,” he said firmly, and Sloan decided not to argue.

“Okay,” she acknowledged, and made to stand up. But he caught her wrist again, gently this time.

“Don’t go,” he said wistfully, and she smiled again and sat back. Tom lay down, though he did not release her hand, and she stayed by his side until he fell asleep again.

* * *

The next morning began the routine that made up the next few weeks. Tom and Ray silently split the breakfast chores between them, since they had little to do otherwise; the three scientists brewed another pot of coffee and dove into lab work. The first day, Tom submitted to yet another blood drawing, though Ed promised that it would be the last for a while if he was still at 1.4 percent. He was.

Ed came back shortly with a clipboard. Tom pulled his sleeve back down over his arm and gave the clipboard a wary look. “More questions?”

Ed shrugged, rueful. “Sorry. Part of the experiment is finding out how you’re different now, at 1.4 percent, than you were at 1.6, or when you were human.”

Tom sighed inwardly; he disliked the scientific probing that even Sloan engaged in from time to time, though he understood the reasons for it. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

“If you’d rather have Sloan, we can do that,” Ed offered.

“No.” He rested his hands on the table. “What do you want to know?”

Ed’s brows arched in amusement at the loaded question, but he chose not to take it. “Well, first of all, do you feel any different, physically, from either your original status, or from being human?”

Tom had to think for a moment. “It’s hard to tell,” he said finally. “My body is still recovering from the last few weeks, but...not much different. My reflexes are a little slower, maybe.”

Ed scribbled. “And from being human?”

Tom hid a wince at the memories. “Again, it was hard to tell. I felt weaker then, but I don’t know if that was from the change or just left over from the fever.” He cast his mind back, trying to concentrate on what he’d felt with his body instead of what he’d felt with his mind.

“I really don’t know,” he admitted at last. “I was too busy paying attention to the other changes.”

Ed looked up with a sudden sharp insight. “And you spend so much time hiding your _Homo dominant_ abilities, the physical ones anyway—so it’s not like you use them a lot.”

Surprised, and not entirely pleased, Tom nodded. Ed hesitated, as though he wanted to pursue the subject, but instead went on with his list.

“So tell me about the other changes.”

Tom looked away, and when he didn’t say anything, Ed sat back and put the clipboard on the table. “Tom—if this is too difficult, we don’t have to do it.”

Tom turned back. “But it’s necessary for the experiment.”

Ed met his eyes, and Tom could feel his discomfort at having to push. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s keep going.” He had agreed to it, after all, when he had convinced Ed to give him the serum in the first place.

Ed sat up and picked up his pen again, waiting, and Tom tried to organize his thoughts.

“When I woke up,” he began, “I felt...confused. Things were different, but I couldn’t figure out why, until Sloan told me the serum had worked.” He stared at nothing, remembering the sheer delight in her face at his surprise and wonder. “Then, when we went out, it felt like a lock had been opened inside me.” He searched for words. “I didn’t have to analyze everything I sensed; it was just there, and I could...take the time...to enjoy it.”

His hands tightened on one another as he remembered. “Everything was richer, somehow, but less sharp...it’s hard to explain. And I...I felt open, more free. As though I didn’t have to hide anymore.”

Ed’s face was very still. “From what Sloan told me earlier,” he said, “your empathic sense wasn’t altered by the change.”

“No.” Tom shook his head. “I felt things much more strongly, in fact.”

“Interesting,” Ed murmured, writing rapidly. “Empathy isn’t unknown among humans, either, but it’s relatively rare. Go on.”

“There’s not much more to tell,” Tom said. “I understood the power of emotions in a way I had never dreamed was possible.” He closed his eyes, remembering that rush of feeling, the comprehension, the odd joy of it before it overwhelmed him.

Ed swallowed. “Do you still feel that strongly?” he asked quietly.

Tom opened his eyes again. “No.”

The scientist bent his head and wrote, saying nothing.

“It’s not gone entirely,” Tom went on. “I remember what it felt like, and now I understand more. It’s still there, a little. But it’s like...” He searched for a metaphor. “...listening to music on the radio, when you’ve been to a live symphony.” Part of him was still grieving for the loss of that sensation.

“Tom...” Ed raised his head again. “I’m sorry.”

He hesitated a long moment. “So am I,” he said finally.

* * *

_Appendix to Data on Subject’s Emotional and Physical Changes_

_I must emphasize that I am not able to maintain the proper objectivity concerning the subject, and probably never was truly objective. The entire experiment was ill-conceived and went against correct scientific procedure; the decision to inject the subject was made under pressure, and was extremely irresponsible and unethical. The subject’s insistence on the experiment does not in any way excuse my actions._

_To be completely accurate, the experiment is also bollixed beyond hope. The subject was not only unobserved for weeks, but was subjected to severe physical and mental trauma, and may have had other experiments performed that he either did not recognize or is unwilling to relate. This collection of data is being performed more to try to aid us in reconstructing the serum than for the completion of the original experiment._

_I can only be grateful that the subject seems to have forgiven me._

* * *

The lab lacked test animals, but as Walter explained rather distractedly at dinner the second night, they had to reconstruct their data before they could think about beginning tests—and they had a long way to go. Ed’s creation of the serum had been based on the secretions of the tick he had retrieved from Kelly’s body, and he’d had the use of some of Dr. Copeland’s advanced equipment. Both were now in the hands of Attwood’s nameless agency, and they had only the knowledge that the serum was possible and the ambiguous results in Tom’s blood.

The late, cool spring gave way to summer as the scientists struggled with their task. Tom’s energy returned as his body healed, and he began taking long runs after dark, when some of the desert heat dissipated into night. Sometimes Ray would join him, though the older man could not match Tom’s stamina; those nights, Tom took a shorter run rather than give up the company. Somehow, while Tom had been gone, Ray’s resentment had dissipated—-; now they had found some wary balance of friendship, each discovering that the other was good at silence.

Ray and Tom were also pulled into service for some of the lab tasks that did not require a Ph.D., but even bottle-washing still left them with time on their hands. Sometimes, when Tom returned from his run, he would find Sloan sound asleep in bed—occasionally still wearing her lab coat. Other times he would retire long before the three emerged from their work. Once in a while Ray would get fed up and stand at the door of the lab flipping the lights on and off, until they turned to snarl at him; unfazed, he would order them to dinner, or to bed, lest they collapse from exhaustion.

Tom still woke from the occasional nightmare, gluey jumbles of pain and cold and deadly fear. Somehow, Sloan always knew when the bad dreams came, and she would rise and sit on his cot, and stroke his hair in silence until the irrational terror left him. They never talked about the incidents; he knew Sloan was curious, but she held her peace.

* * *

It was early June when Ed slung a towel across the lab with a curse. “It’s no good!”

Sloan pushed her protective goggles up to her forehead with a sigh. “What’s the matter?”

Ed clenched his fists in his hair as though he would tear it out by the handful. “This is all useless. We’re missing too much.” He was red-eyed and haggard from the weeks of work, and the other two were not much better.

Walter set aside the slide he had been examining and peeled off his gloves slowly. Sloan opened her mouth to say something reassuring, then closed it again. Nothing came to mind.

Ed collapsed onto one of the stools with a frustrated sigh. “We’re missing too many variables in the equation. Without the tick secretions, or the data, we’ll never get any farther.”

Walter folded his arms and regarded the younger man for a long moment; Sloan took the opportunity to stretch out her cramped back.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Walter said finally. “We’ve been fighting the inevitable here. We don’t have enough, even with the samples from Tom.”

“It’s like—” Ed gestured, “—we have the answer, and the beginning of the equation, but not the middle parts. And we need those parts.”

Slowly, Sloan took off her goggles entirely and set them on the counter in front of her, thinking hard. “Maybe we should try something else,” she said, voicing the thought that had been growing in her mind for the last couple of weeks. “The serum, even if we could get it to work, would be difficult to implement.”

She remembered Tom’s stark word-picture of his species being forcibly captured and injected, and took it one step further in her mind. Tom had barely survived his transformation. What would a stronger serum, or a repeat dosage, do to a weaker _Homo dominant_?

“I think,” she said unhappily, “that we may have been going at this wrong. The serum is a great idea in abstract, but...”

There was a long silence, weary around the edges, and she tried to explain herself. “It sounded good when we had it—but it didn’t work completely—” she winced inwardly at Ed’s grimace, “—and even if we did get it right again, how would we use it by ourselves? We’re...we’re hanging on to the serum idea because it’s...” And she ran out of words to explain herself. Her head buzzed with fatigue.

“You mean,” Walter said finally, “that we’ve been trying so hard to reconstruct the serum because it’s something solid. If we give it up, we have to try to find another solution.”

Sloan nodded miserably. Ed blew out his breath, almost relieved. The serum was a piece of work that in more normal times would win him acclaim and possibly high scientific honors, but now it seemed the laying down of a burden to let it go. He, too, had not let himself think much beyond Tom’s reaction to the serum idea and his insistence on serving as a guinea pig.

“We should talk about this, all of us,” Walter said, and glanced at the lab clock. “Didn’t Ray say he was going for supplies today?”

“Yeah, he said dinner would be late,” Sloan remembered.

“That will be soon enough.” Walter removed his lab coat and hung it on its hook. “In the meantime, I suggest we take a break. Cleanup can wait until tomorrow.”

Sloan and Ed watched him leave the room. The older man was moving stiffly, and Sloan felt a pang for his obvious exhaustion.

“What am I going to tell Tom?” Ed said quietly.

Sloan turned back to her friend, remembering the intensity in Tom’s voice when he had told her that she was worth the risk of a second dose. “I’ll tell him.”

She found Tom in the room they shared. Sloan wondered absently how many times he had read the worn paperback novel he held; there was little reading material on the base, and he’d had a lot of time on his hands. He looked up the moment she came in, and set the book aside without hesitation. His gaze swept over her, assessing; then, without a word, he rose and put his arms around her.

Sloan returned the hug, resting her head on his shoulder and drawing strength from his warmth. He stroked her hair with one hand, demanding nothing, and she blinked back tears of frustration and weariness.

Finally she drew away, and his hands slid down to rest on her waist. “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

“We need to talk,” she said, her stomach tensing at what she had to tell him.

He regarded her for a moment, then let her go. “The sun is setting,” he said, and picked up their jackets from the top of her footlocker. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Tom set a slow pace out into the desert, heading west so they could enjoy the bands of fiery color staining the sky. Sloan was silent for a while, trying to discipline her tired brain. Eventually she glanced over; Tom looked back, patient as ever.

“We can’t reconstruct the serum,” she said at last.

Tom was silent for a few yards. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to,” he replied, and Sloan, now better at reading the subtleties of his face, detected resignation but no surprise.

“We’re all going to discuss it later,” Sloan went on, “but I think we’re going to have to give up on the idea and find something else.” She kept her eyes on his face, and caught a flicker of sorrow. “Tom, what is it?”

He stuck his hands into his pockets. “Nothing.”

Sloan’s eyes narrowed, and she stopped walking, catching his arm. “Something’s bothering you.”

He swung around to face her, brows drawing down. “Sloan...” he said warningly.

She would have none of it. “Tell me.”

Their gazes caught for a moment; then Tom blinked and turned away. “I wanted to try to be human again.”

Sloan’s breath went out of her in pain. “Oh, Tom...”

“It felt so good,” he said quietly. “Remember what I told you, Sloan? Everything was so different, so colorful, so rich...” He pulled his hands from his pockets and clenched them into fists. “It didn’t hurt to be human, it felt wonderful. And...and...”

Sloan took his hands in hers, rubbing his tight knuckles, trying to soothe him. “What?”

“I wanted to be like you again.” He didn’t pause at her widened eyes. “You’re so open, and warm, and free. For a little while I was like that too. And then it went away.” He closed his eyes at the memory. “It hurt to feel it changing. Everything went sharp again...it felt like going back into a prison.”

His eyes opened, grey again darkened to blue, this time with pain. Anguished, Sloan laid one palm against his cheek. “Tom—”

“Don’t,” he whispered, putting his hand over hers, pressing it against his face. Sloan shook her head, eyes brilliant with unshed tears, and he found he was shaking again. He let her hand go, but she only slipped her arms around him and pulled him close. He laid his head on her shoulder.

He had feared losing her to the differences between them. That was part of what had fueled his demand for a booster shot of serum—the worry that someday she would see him for the alien he was, and turn away. That fear had vanished during his imprisonment, when he had realized that she had come searching for him; her determination to find him, futile though it had been, had cemented his faith in her. But the other half of his desire was a yearning for the humanity that he’d been trained to consider moribund.

Sloan’s hands moved in gentle circles on his back, and he made an effort to breathe more slowly, to still his trembling. Her presence was solid, steadying, a link to something brighter than all he had been taught.

“Does it hurt to be the way you are now?” she asked finally, her voice choked.

He pressed his face into her jacket. “Not the way it did. But I didn’t know what I was missing, Sloan,” he said, muffled. “Now I do.”

He lifted his head. Tears were running down Sloan’s cheeks, and he could feel the sick pain in her, the same pain that she’d felt when he’d told her what had happened during his captivity.

“But you’re 1.4 percent now,” she said, eyes searching his face. “Doesn’t that make a difference?”

He blinked and swallowed, trying to ease the pain in his throat. “Yes,” he admitted. “Things aren’t as...harsh...as they were. And now I know what these—these feelings are for. But I...I liked being like you,” he managed, unable to articulate the longings inside him.

Sloan shook her head, eyes brilliant. “Just because we can’t recreate the serum now doesn’t mean we won’t be able to do it later, Tom,” she finally said. “If you really want to be human, there may be a way to accomplish it.”

“But you don’t like the idea,” he said, and saw from her face that he had sensed her reluctance correctly.

Her arms tightened around him a bit. “Tom, it was so dangerous! You nearly died from it.”

His own hands slid around to the small of her back. “But I didn’t.”

“You might not be so lucky a second time.” Her mouth was straight with seriousness. “While you were gone...and then while we were working on the serum, I started thinking it might be too dangerous to use. We want to change your species, not kill them.”

“You want to,” Tom corrected. “Others may not feel the same.”

A brief anger darkened her eyes. “Then we’ll just have to solve the problem first,” she said. He appreciated her determination.

Sloan’s expression softened again. “Tom,” she said gently, “if you want to be fully human, then we’ll give it a try again as soon as we can. But it’ll have to be something safer. I just got you back. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Tom’s throat tightened again at her words, and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. She smiled, and he couldn’t resist. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his own, and reveled in her eager response.

Sloan almost protested when Tom suddenly lifted his head. “What’s the matter?” she managed, as his gaze, suddenly sharp, arrowed out into the darkening air.

“Someone’s coming,” he said breathlessly. Part of her was pleased indeed by his reaction to their kiss. Then the tenseness of his body relaxed. “It’s Ray,” he added.

Sloan laughed. “Just as well,” she said ruefully. “I’m starving.”

Tom looked down at her, then arched one brow in amused agreement. He let her go, and she shrugged into her jacket; the air was beginning to cool, and her temperature was low with fatigue. Tom put an arm around her waist as they began walking slowly back to the ugly building on the horizon.

As they neared it, Sloan detected the faint hum of an approaching engine, and she marveled at Tom’s heightened hearing. The battered pickup that Walter had found somewhere swung into view a moment later, jolting along the broken driveway. Both Ray’s bullet-riddled car and Ed’s semi-historical van were too conspicuous to be used for supply runs, so Walter had found a third vehicle. The bed of the truck was laden with promising-looking grocery bags. Sloan’s stomach growled at the prospect of food as she and Tom quickened their pace to meet Ray in the loading bay of the derelict building.

The older man shot a doubting glance at the ceiling as he got out of the truck. “I’m still not sure that’s safe,” he muttered, then smiled as he saw the other two approach.

“Glad you’re here,” he said, with the air of one with a secret.

Tom inhaled, and his brows rose. “You brought pizza,” he said approvingly.

Ray laughed and shook his head. “Should have known I couldn’t fool you. You get it, Sloan, it’s on the passenger seat.”

Sloan opened the door and scooped up the three large boxes as Ray filled Tom’s arms and his own with groceries. “So, what brings you out so early?” he asked Sloan as they made their way down to the basement.

“We’ve run into a problem,” she said, her depression partially offset by the savory smell coming from the boxes. “Walter says we can talk about it over dinner.”

“Fine with me.” Ray set his burdens down on the counter, and Tom followed suit.

“I’ll give you a hand with the rest of them,” the younger man said, and they vanished back up the stairs. Sloan washed up quickly; Ed appeared, still looking worn out, and helped her set the table.

They made appreciative inroads into the pizza before anyone said anything of consequence; meals had been generous but basic for the past weeks, and Ray’s offering was a treat.

Finally Walter sat back with a sigh, dropping his crumpled napkin on the table. Ed handed his crust to Sloan and took another slice, but they all turned their attention to the older scientist.

“We’ve decided that the serum is a dead end at this time,” Walter said, mostly to Ray. “We lack the necessary data to reproduce it. The question is...”

He trailed off, and Ray finished his sentence. “What do we do next?”

“Exactly.” Walter took off his glasses and began polishing them with a fresh napkin. “We appear to have escaped the immediate threat of both my former employer and the new species.”

“Only for a while,” Tom warned. “Sooner or later, they’ll track us down.”

“So, should we move?” Ed said, resting his elbows on the table.

“Not without a plan of action,” Ray said. “Just running will bring them down on us sooner.”

Walter put his glasses back on and looked around the table. “Any suggestions?”

A glum silence settled over the table. Finally Tom broke it. “Seems to me the problem is we don’t have enough data about what they’re doing. Or what they’re going to do.”

Walter leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “So what’s your thought?”

“We need help. Someone who does know, and is willing to help us.”

“You mean Shane?” asked Sloan, recalling the earnest young man who had helped them find Ed.

“No.” Tom shook his head, eyes narrow. “He wouldn’t know enough. But what about your contact?” He looked over to Walter.

The older man’s brows rose. “Mark? An intriguing idea.”

“He didn’t seem ticked at us the last time we saw him,” Ray put in thoughtfully. “If he really meant what he said about the peace faction...”

“I believe he did,” Walter mused. “So you think he can tell us what _Homo dominant_ is planning?”

Tom tilted his head. “Maybe. It depends on a lot of things. But I think he’s our best chance right now.”

Walter nodded. “I’ll try to contact him tomorrow. Any other ideas?”

No one said anything for a moment; then Ray opened his mouth, but hesitated. Walter focused on him. “What’s your thought?”

Ray grimaced. “Well…I’m no scientist. But I’ve been thinking for a while, and it looks to me like you might have hold of the wrong end of the problem.” He looked around the table at the puzzled faces of the scientists, and Tom’s usual impassivity.

“You guys are biologists, so you look at the new species from a biological point of view. But from where I stand, the problem looks more psychological.”

Ed frowned and leaned forward on his elbows. “What do you mean?”

Ray lifted one hand, palm up. “To me, the new species has all the earmarks of a cult.” He folded a finger in toward his palm for each point. “Complete devotion to a cause, a conviction that they’re better than everyone else, paranoia…and strict, regimented training. Plus the organization. Sounds to me like they might have a charismatic leader, or three, tucked away somewhere.”

Tom’s brows went up. “You’re saying that my species’ mission is the result of brainwashing?”

“Not exactly,” Ray demurred. “I mean, you guys really are the new improved model. But I can’t see how all this conviction, this purpose, can come from instinct alone. There’s careful planning behind this, and that has to come from somebody.”

Tom nodded slowly, intrigued. “That would explain a lot that I’ve been wondering about,” he said. “I mean, if our behavior were driven entirely by our genetics, how could the peace faction exist?”

Walter’s eyes narrowed in thought. “So you’re suggesting some kind of psychological solution to the problem?” he asked Ray.

The ex-detective shrugged. “Is that possible? I mean, if it were just a normal cult, you’d try to deprogram the members. But we’re talking hundreds of thousands of people here.”

Walter frowned. “True…”

Sloan bit her lip, thinking hard. “But that could be the key, Ray. The leaders. Stop them, and maybe the whole organization would collapse.”

Ed shook his head. “That’s a pretty slim chance, Sloan.”

“He’s right,” Tom said. “Remember how independently Lewis operated? Even if we take out the leaders—assuming we could find them—the rest of them would probably keep going. They’re operating under a belief so strong that they’ll do anything to support their cause.”

Sloan shook her head. “I’m not talking about killing them. I’m talking about changing them, their minds. If they’re as charismatic as Ray assumes, then they can change the rest. Or if they can’t, it would at least disrupt things while they tried.”

Walter tilted his head. “Do you really think that’s possible, Sloan?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”

* * *

Sloan woke slowly, stretching in unaccustomed relaxation. For once, it felt like she’d gotten enough sleep. When she finally peeled her eyes open, her travel alarm told her it was nearly noon. Tom’s cot was empty.

She got up, limbs heavy with a surfeit of sleep, and padded out into the corridor, following the smell of coffee toward the kitchen. Tom was there, filling a cup, which he handed to her; she figured he must have heard her coming. _Or felt me coming. Whatever._

He looked her over, from tangled hair, past T-shirt and shorts to bare feet, and smiled suddenly. Sloan inhaled coffee steam. “What?” she asked curiously.

“Your shirt,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

Sloan looked down at the garment, which read “Microbiology Lab—Staph Only.” She shrugged. “I need to do some laundry.”

She sat down at the table; the basement complex was surprisingly quiet. “Where is everybody?”

Tom leaned against the counter with his own cup. “Walter went out to try to make contact with Mark, and he took Ray with him. He didn’t want to call from here in case the call was traced. I haven’t seen Ed yet this morning, so I think he’s still asleep.”

“He needs it,” Sloan said, frowning. “He’s been pushing himself way too hard.”

“He’s not the only one,” Tom said, looking pointedly at her.

The subject of their discussion appeared in the doorway, looking less awake than Sloan felt. He had obviously thrown on a shirt in some concession to propriety, but he had not bothered to button it up, and his boxers were one of his more eye-searing sets.

“Coffee?” he pleaded, and Tom pointed.

Ed sighed in relief and poured himself a large mug, lacing it liberally with milk. “So where are Walter and Ray?”

Tom sighed in turn, and Sloan giggled. “They went out to see about getting in touch with Mark,” she told Ed. “You know Walter. Once he gets an idea in his head—”

“Sounds like somebody else I know,” Ed muttered, and Sloan had to laugh again. She sat back in the chair, savoring the feeling of not having to rush off into the lab, and then shut off thoughts of their failure to reproduce the serum. _Tom’s right. We’ve all been running ourselves into the ground on this—we’ve hardly had a chance to rest since Tom was taken._

Ed pulled out a chair and sat down as well. “So what do we do while we wait?”

Sloan sent him a mock-irritated glare. “I don’t know about you, but I intend to eat breakfast. And wash my clothes. Anything else can wait until they get back.”

Ed snorted into his mug, but said nothing.

* * *

It was full dark by the time Walter and Ray returned, and by that time Sloan was tense with worry. Ray had said it was unlikely that they had been tracked down as yet, but every trip away from their stronghold was a risk. Her mood had not been helped by seeing Tom carrying the handgun, either.

But the two men reported success. Mark had been contacted, and had agreed to come and talk to them. “He said he’d be here tomorrow,” Walter told them as he peeled off his jacket. “He must have gone into hiding relatively close by.”

His face was drawn with more than weariness, Sloan noticed. “Is something wrong?” she asked him.

Ray laughed dryly. “Depends on your point of view.”

Walter looked grim. “Remember how I told you my ex-boss’ organization suddenly appeared to be on the move, pulling in resources?” At nods from Ed and Sloan, he went on. “The catalyst behind that was a series of events that we’ve only just found out about. There was an incident at one of the government’s secret facilities—much like the one where you were kept, Tom,” and he gestured at the younger man _._

“It was the place Lewis was taken.” Walter trailed off uncomfortably.

Tom looked up. “What is it?”

Walter shook his head. “Someone broke into the facility and freed him. They also killed a number of people, including my ex-boss. Given the method of the killing, they were almost certainly members of the new species. The pattern...” he hesitated, then went on. “...it was much like the death of Dr. Coulter.”

Sloan swallowed hard. Much as she had hated Walter’s boss—for her arrogance, for taking Tom, for what Tom had suffered—she wouldn’t wish a death like that on anybody.

Tom folded his arms. “Shane said they knew about her, but weren’t able to touch her. They must have found a way.”

“Revenge?” Ed asked, but Tom shook his head.

“No. Revenge is useless. They were sending a warning.”

“To those that are trying to stop them,” Sloan said quietly, and Tom turned toward her.

“They meant us to hear about it.”

Ed shivered. Sloan had been the one to find Coulter’s body, but he had seen the results of that attack, and it had caused him some sleepless nights. But sending a warning?

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “If that was a warning for us, that must mean that we’re still a threat.”

Walter’s brows rose at that. “It could be,” he mused. “Why bother if they don’t think we need to be stopped?”

“That only means they’re going to come after us even harder,” Tom warned.

“They have to find us first,” Walter said, a little smugly. “And since it looks like we won’t be using the lab, we can leave any time we have to.”

Tom let out his breath in silent exasperation, but forbore to say anything. Walter went on, oblivious to Tom’s doubts. “So, hopefully, Mark will be able to give us enough information to decide on a plan of action.”

Sloan could see the energy returning to Walter. He hated feeling helpless as much as any of them, she judged; a new lead gave him purpose.

The impromptu meeting broke up, and Tom and Sloan went back to their room. Tom appeared deep in thought. Sloan hesitated to disturb it, but her curiosity—and concern—got the better of her. She hesitated as he sat down, then spoke. “What are we going to do about Lewis?”

“Nothing,” Tom said quietly. “At least right now. I’m surprised it took him so long to escape, actually.”

Sloan turned and paced up the narrow room, then back. “So he’s not a threat?”

Tom made a humorless sound. “Lewis is always a threat. But there’s nothing we _can_ do right now. He’ll have gone into hiding. All we can do is wait for him to show his hand.”

Sloan wanted to argue, but Tom knew Lewis better than she did. Fear was driving her, she realized; she disciplined her mind to a less scary topic.

“Tom—do you think Mark will be able to tell you more about yourself?”

Tom looked up from his seat on his cot. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted.

Sloan sat down next to him. “So?”

Tom took a breath and picked up one of her hands, lacing his fingers with hers. “I don’t know. It depends on what position he held, what his responsibilities were...Shane knew what I did because I had been held up as an example to him, not because he was automatically taught.”

Sloan thought a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin heating her palm. “But he should know some general things—like what your tattoo means, for instance.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, but he put his other hand over hers, enveloping it. “Maybe.”

Sloan looked down at their joined hands. “I dreamed of you, you know. While you were gone.”

She looked up again, and grey eyes met blue-green. “It was as though I was there,” she went on. “I couldn’t touch you. But...but it felt so real. The weird thing is, Ed dreamed it too, once.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “It was real,” he said, just above a whisper. “I saw you standing there, and when you came I could endure.”

Normally, Sloan thought, she would be astonished at the idea that they had somehow linked minds. But so many strange things had happened that this seemed almost natural. “You mean we were connected?”

“We are connected,” Tom corrected. “All three of us, it seems.” His grip tightened.

“Is this normal for your species?” Sloan asked, scientific curiosity impossible to suppress.

Tom shook his head. “I don’t think so. If it is, it certainly wouldn’t be encouraged.”

“No emotional attachments,” Sloan sighed. “Maybe it’s a side effect of the serum.” She felt suddenly shy. The dreams had brought her hope, but Tom’s privacy was deep. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Tom told her. “It makes me feel like I belong.”

* * *

The sun was climbing toward midmorning when Mark’s nondescript sedan made its way to the compound. The handsome man swung out of the car and came to meet them, as wary as he had ever been. Ray remembered briefly their last face-to-face meeting, after the peace faction’s delegate had died under the government’s bullets; so many of the new species kept their faces blank, but Mark’s had at last shown traces of fatigue and—not sympathy—but a certain acknowledgement that they were in the same leaky boat. The ex-detective had been surprised to see a flash of respect in Mark’s eyes, and it seemed to him that Mark had been surprised as well.

Now Mark’s eyes searched each one quickly before he closed the car door. Walter stepped forward and offered his hand, and Mark took it with only a slight hesitation. “You know Ray Peterson,” the scientist said. “These are Doctors Sloan Parker and Ed Tate.”

Mark shook their hands with a more natural air before Walter gestured to Tom. “And this is Tom Daniels.”

The two men regarded each other for a long moment, and the others felt the hum of tension between them. Then one corner of Tom’s mouth quirked, and he held out his hand. Mark looked at it, and suddenly Sloan thought that if he were human, he would have made some disbelieving comment or expression. But the _Homo dominant_ slowly reached forward and returned Tom’s grip. Then he turned back. “Let’s get inside,” he said.

Walter led the way down to their complex and herded them to seats around the kitchen table. Mark refused the offer of food and drink with the air of one who thought the ancient courtesy unnecessary, but he sat politely enough and looked around at them. “What do you want to know?” he asked finally.

Walter folded his hands and rested them on the table. “First of all, how is the peace faction?”

Some tension in the younger man’s bearing relaxed at the question. “Lying low. It would seem that our own people were content to let your government do their dirty work for them.”

“Do you still want peace?” Ray asked.

“We believe that without it our own aggression will destroy us,” Mark repeated. “If we exterminate you, we will turn on each other. Peace is the more rational course.”

He reached into his jacket and drew out a manila envelope, then passed it to Walter. “These are the documents you brought—the assurances from the United Nations that we were to be acknowledged as a people. Are they false as well?”

Walter winced, but he slid the documents out and examined them. “As far as I can tell, they are genuine—but I can’t be sure.”

Ray held out a hand. “Let me have a look.”

Walter slid the papers across the table. The ex-detective began thumbing through them.

“We were wondering,” Walter said carefully, “if you could give us more general information about your species. Organization, training, what you are taught—”

Mark looked at Tom, brows raised. Tom gave a tiny shrug. “I was a chameleon,” he said quietly. “I don’t remember.”

Mark snorted without humor. “Might have guessed that,” he said. “I take it you’re looking for general facts, not specifics.”

“We’ve been working blind, mostly,” Sloan put in. “If we knew a little more about how your species’ plans are set up, we might be able to work more effectively. For instance—” She grabbed at the question that had been bothering her for months. “Tom has a tattoo on his right shoulder blade—but his brother didn’t. What does it mean?”

Mark shot Tom a quick, unreadable glance. “It means he has been chosen as a leader.”

“A leader? Of what?” Ed asked.

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it, looking hesitant. “I guess I’d better tell you some history first,” he said finally. He laughed with some amusement at the scientists’ eager expressions. “To put it briefly...”

Mark’s story, to Sloan’s mind, was like an outline for an edgy science-fiction novel. It started with a small group of people, all intelligent, all “different,” who knew they were different long before Watson and Crick’s discovery of DNA gave them the tool to discover just how. Some died by violence, betrayed by their own aggression. Some banded together, finding each other by clandestine research into medical records, by the cautious seeking out of outcasts, by sheer grim scanning for others who stood out in their minds. There was a core family that knew itself different, that had lived for generations in one isolated location; there was a matriarch who decided that to survive, they would have to retreat, to concentrate their forces and their genetics, and their intelligence. Research was begun.

Eventually they realized just what they were—an entirely new species of primate, the next rung on evolution’s ladder. Now they had proof of what they were—and sooner or later, the outside world, the _Homo sapiens_ , would have it too. More secrecy was needed; they were too vulnerable, too few as yet to withstand a concentrated effort to wipe them out, should one take place—and history indicated that such an effort was likely.

A new leader arose, who believed that _Homo sapiens_ was a certain threat instead of a possible one. Who thought that the new species had to move more aggressively to secure its place in the planet’s future. He designed a hierarchy and a plan that spanned generations, and he put it in motion. The balance was too delicate, he declared, to leave its tipping to Nature. Intelligence would have to take a hand and remove the defunct species from the playing field.

Not everyone agreed with him, and for a time those who did not were left alone. Many more were devoted to his plan and carried out its movements without question. As time progressed, a large number of the dissidents decided to split off from the main group. No one stopped them. They went out into the world and hid themselves among _Homo sapiens_ , communicating with each other and keeping an eye on their more ruthless brethren. They had agreed not to reveal the new species’ plan to the humans, for fear of reaction against even the peaceful members of _Homo dominant_. As time went on, they realized that decision had been a mistake, but now they feared reprisals from the aggressive factions should they say anything.

“Then you found out,” Mark said, gesturing at Sloan. “And when that news broke, we figured we might be able to work with you.”

“What took you so long?” Ed asked dryly.

“Even among my faction not everyone is in agreement,” Mark said smoothly. “And first we had to be sure that you would survive. Actually, we were rather surprised when you made it through the first attempts to destroy you.” He and Tom traded another set of glances that were opaque to the watching humans.

“So, about the tattoo?” Sloan asked.

“You don’t remember the prophets?” Mark asked Tom.

Tom shook his head, crossing his arms. “I know they exist. I don’t know what they’ve predicted.”

“We know that something’s supposed to happen when Kewley’s Comet passes,” said Ed.

“Ah, yes, the pillar,” Mark said. “That was another surprise for us. We didn’t think you’d be able to decipher that.” He thought a moment. “Do you have an Internet connection down here?”

A few minutes later he was logging online on Ed’s laptop, fingers moving briskly as he typed in an address. “You know, of course, that there are thousands of sites on the Internet that can’t be found by search engines.”

The group peering over his shoulders murmured agreement. “Certain essential information and news is kept on such sites, where everyone can access it but no outsider can find it,” Mark went on. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he muttered, half to himself.

The site began loading, and Mark sat back. “So how do you know about it?” Ed asked. “Or is this a peace faction site?”

“We have sympathizers within the war faction,” Mark said. “They pass on certain information—usually at great risk to themselves.” He looked back up at Tom. “The chameleons are sometimes used to root them out.”

Tom tilted his head and regarded the other man, but no expression crossed his face.

“Looks like your site has been taken down,” Ray said, and Mark turned back to the computer. The screen displayed a “Site not found” message.

“Not at all,” Mark said, and clicked on the message. “It’s camouflage, just in case somebody stumbles across the site.”

The new page displayed rows of messages with dates—but the messages used a system of lettering that none of the humans had seen before. Tom’s brows lowered and he leaned forward, face darkening in the expression that Sloan had last seen—she shivered—when he had pulled out a gun and shot the Lynch clone. Mark scrolled quickly down the page.

“Back around the time of the second World War,” he explained, “one of our species’ most powerful prophets made some important predictions. You must understand,” and he looked around and back up at the watchers, “such people are extremely rare. There have only been four prophets since we knew what we were, and their predictions were not numerous. But they are almost unfailingly accurate. This one—” he faced the screen again—”was already old at the time this recording was made. She had just foreseen her own death, and the rise in power of the leader I told you about, the one who decided that the human species must be destroyed. She didn’t agree with him, but she also knew that he was inevitable.”

He clicked on one of the unreadable messages; the new page displayed a black-and-white photo of a proud, grim-faced, elderly woman. More text lay below the photo. “This is her last prediction,” Mark said. “A few weeks later she was killed in the London blitz. Part of it has been lost.”

One final click, and the computer’s speakers began to hiss with static. Then the old woman’s crackling voice broke in, and another shiver ran over Sloan at the thought that they were listening to a person who had died nearly half a century before.

“—two of them.” A long pause. “A crucial moment. A deciding point. The one that emerges from that conflict will lead—whether to destruction or to success—it depends on the winner. I can’t see who.” Another pause, and Sloan got the distinct impression, though she couldn’t tell how, that the speaker was impatient with her own limitations. “Mark the fourth-born of every first pregnancy, if they survive past the first stage. Brutal idiot,” she added, apparently in an aside. “One of those will prove the leader, when Kewley’s passes. Mark them and watch them.”

“Can you see anything about the conflict?” asked a male voice, very deep.

“Two choices,” the woman answered. “One of them is different—a link—between the old and the new. It’s that one—” And the recording trailed off in a burst of static.

“There’s been a lot of speculation recently about just what she meant,” Mark said, shutting the computer down. “Among the war faction, the opinion is that whoever she’s talking about as a ‘link’ would mean the destruction of our species, should he or she become the leader. Some of us, however, aren’t so sure.”

“‘Brutal idiot?’ What did she mean by that?” Sloan asked.

Mark shrugged. “Our survival depends on strength. Our children are not pampered and protected the way human children are. They either survive, or they don’t—and our genetic heritage is kept strong.”

Anger and pain flared in Sloan, and she took Tom’s hand and held it hard. _No affection at all—_

“So, the deciding point she spoke of is coming up in a few months,” Walter said thoughtfully.

“Do you have a tattoo?” Ed asked Mark curiously.

“No, he doesn’t,” Tom answered.

Everyone turned to look at him. “How do you know?” Sloan asked.

Tom shrugged again. “Instinct.”

Mark nodded. “We operate on instinct more than humans usually do,” he said. “Tom’s been trained all his life to be a leader. I haven’t. We could both sense that about each other.”

Tom glanced from Sloan to Ed and back again. “How do you think I was able to subdue Lynch so easily in the cave? He knew what I was, and he was trained to obey me, despite the fact that I wasn’t following orders any more.”

“The clone didn’t,” Sloan pointed out.

“He was mad,” Tom said dismissively. “And the conditioning isn’t unbreakable, obviously.”

“Is Lewis one of these leaders?” Ray inquired.

“No. He’s a teacher, a trainer,” Tom said.

“If he had a tattoo, he wouldn’t hold that role,” Mark added.

Walter got up and began to pace slowly, back and forth. “So there is a crucial, deciding moment coming up in October. What exactly is going to happen?”

Mark hesitated a long moment, apparently engaging in some internal battle. Finally, he spoke. “A gathering. The leadership of the war faction expects to see the final contenders for the role...compete.”

Sloan did not like the sound of that. “Compete how?” she asked.

Mark turned to her, eyes intense under decisive brows. “That depends. Quite a number of fourth-borns have formally given up any claim to the position.”

He did not elaborate, but Sloan could finish the thought for herself _. And the ones who haven’t will kill each other. Until there’s only one left._ She felt sick.

“Did you give up your claim?” Ed asked, looking directly at Tom.

“I don’t remember,” Tom answered calmly. But then his fingers tightened on Sloan’s as he went on. “But probably not.”

“But they wouldn’t consider you still in the running, would they?” Ray objected. “I mean, you’re not one of them any more.”

Sloan inhaled. They had very carefully not mentioned the serum to Mark, nor the changes that Tom had experienced. _But can he sense them?_ Sloan wondered suddenly.

However, Mark seemed to take Ray’s comment as relevant to Tom’s allegiance. “That may not matter. If he chooses to...be in the running, he could probably get away with it.”

“But he’s still under sentence of death,” Walter pointed out. “We all are. Except for Ray, possibly.”

The ex-detective snorted. “The whole human race is under sentence of death. I’m no exception.” He handed the manila envelope back to Mark. “I’m no expert either. But I think these are genuine. If you want to come out of the closet, the U.N. will probably protect you. For whatever that’s worth.”

Mark nodded slowly, and tucked the envelope back into his jacket. He rubbed his eyes, and Sloan could suddenly see the bone-deep weariness that was etched subtly into his skin. Apparently Walter noticed as well, because he glanced at his watch.

“Good grief. We’ve been at this almost two hours. Let’s break for lunch.”

There was a general shuffling as those seated pushed back their chairs. Mark rose gracefully. “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked Tom in a low voice.

Tom led him out of the room, and Sloan followed a moment later, planning to fetch a sweater from her room. But she paused, hand on the door, at the voices just beyond in the corridor. Not sure why she was doing so, she strained to listen.

“—what the tattoo is for,” Mark said.

“Only partly,” came Tom’s answer. “I wasn’t able to get a lot of information.”

“How did you get away?”

“Sloan and Ray,” Tom said simply, and Sloan’s heart swelled at his words, even as a cold suspicion began to grow in her. “Ray was shot in the shoulder.”

Sloan pushed open the door, and both men looked up quickly. “Down at the end of the hall,” Tom said to Mark, and pointed. The other man nodded and strode away.

Sloan looked at Tom, and hurt began to mix with the suspicion. “What is it?” Tom asked, frowning.

Sloan stepped past him and hurried to their room. She rummaged blindly in her bag for the sweater, hearing Tom’s footsteps enter the room and the click as he shut the door. “Sloan.” His voice was quiet, but it held that note of command that he used so rarely.

She straightened, fingers digging into the thick knit of the pullover. “You lied to me.”

Tom tilted his head and regarded her expressionlessly. “When?”

“After we got you out of your cellar, when you woke up.” She heard her voice trembling, and swallowed hard. “You told me...you told me you didn’t know what your tattoo meant.”

Tom straightened, then walked carefully around to sit on his cot. He didn’t speak, and Sloan struggled to verbalize her thoughts.

“Tom, I—I thought you trusted me. After all we’ve been through—”

Her words were hurting him, she knew that, even though his expression did not change. But her own hurt welled inside her, burning, demanding an outlet. Still he said nothing.

“What else haven’t you told us? Told me? Are you afraid we’ll misuse the information or something?” She could feel the tears heating her eyes, but she fought them back, anger mixed with the pain.

Tom shook his head. “Sloan—” he began hoarsely, but there was a sharp knock at the door.

They both looked over as it flew open. Ed stuck his head inside. “The alarm system just tripped. Somebody’s coming,” he said urgently. “And whoever it is, they aren’t friendly.”

* * *

_It was fitting that this task should fall to him. Others had failed, but he would not. Could not._

_There were some who would blame him for his protégé’s betrayal; after all, the younger man had broken his programming not once but twice. Some had wanted Tom eliminated as soon as his new allegiance was revealed, but he had disagreed. His apprentice’s value had been high, his training extensive; it had been worth the risk to try to regain him. However, Tom’s second escape and subsequent actions had proven him damaged beyond retrieval. Removal was the only option now._

_He considered revenge as a motivation, regarding it as one might look over some strange toy in the window of a shop, then discarded it. It was not a part of him. Revenge was pointless, a waste of time. This was reaction—delayed, but necessary. Betrayal was normally punished swiftly, but this quisling had proven the worth of his apprenticeship, the promise of his marking, and had eluded justice._

_When he really thought about it, though, he realized that behind his absolute devotion to his duty was a sense of puzzlement. He wanted answers. Just what was it that had lured Tom to the enemy? It couldn’t be the red-haired scientist, not entirely; he trained his students to be immune to such temptations. No. Some subtle infection must have escaped his own attention, somehow, altering his best subordinate into someone he no longer understood._

_He tasted the pleasure in his hunt, let it warm his belly, savored it as a man above rules savors a forbidden treat. Then he set it aside. Emotion was nothing but a vestigial characteristic, one that would soon disappear from his kind. It served little purpose. He had his assignment, and he would carry it out._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Darkness had filled the car long since. Silence ruled between them after the first frantic rush away; there were no pauses for food or for other necessities. They simply fled.

Sloan didn’t know where they were going, and she wasn’t sure that Tom did either. She did know, with the bitterness of recent experience, that if she really started thinking about what might have happened to the other four, she would start crying. So she didn’t. She let her mind drift in a haze of physical lassitude and emotional confusion; yet she was sharply aware of the silent man seated so close to her. Who held himself so tightly closed that she was almost afraid of what would happen, what would be revealed, when he chose to open.

And her thoughts went over and over what had happened to send them so far from their refuge, stiff with unspoken tension.

 _As they scrambled for the vehicles, Walter thrust a packet into Tom’s hand and shouted something about a safe house; Ray tossed a set of keys to her. She handed them to Tom, figuring that his driving skills were almost certainly better than hers, and they piled into Ray’s battered car and drove away as fast as was possible on the rough ground. A vague glimpse of Ed protesting that he could not leave his beloved VW, and Mark--Mark!--taking his arm and hustling him into the_ Homo dominant’s _sedan; Ray and Walter taking the aged pickup; and all three vehicles going in different directions._

_Her faith in Tom’s skills was not misplaced. While the other two cars bounced off overland after going out through the gate, Tom urged Ray’s car as fast as it would go down the crumbling driveway that led to their hidden complex. She squeaked and covered her eyes when three cars came into view, heading rapidly toward them; the driveway was certainly not wide enough to pass, and passing was not what the invaders had in mind._

_So she wasn’t too sure what happened. A squealing of tires, a series of jolts that felt like the wheels should spring off the car, the hiss of breath through Tom’s teeth; the sharp ping of bullets adding yet more holes to the side of the car. But when she dared to look, they were away, their pursuers apparently deciding that the other cars were easier prey._

Sloan blinked at the sound of gravel under the wheels. Tom was pulling the car over onto the shoulder of the winding, hilly road. Silently he shut off the engine, removed his seatbelt, and climbed out--without a trace of stiffness, part of Sloan’s mind noticed in envy. She thought about getting out herself, but some hint of wariness in his stance made her stay where she was.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see him scrambling up the hill next to the car, though he made little sound. She lost him near the top of the hill, but after a moment his profile rose against the sky as he stood up carefully. He looked back the way they had come for long minutes, remaining so still that Sloan peered around to see where they had stopped. Not much was visible besides the stars. The only reason she could see Tom’s outline, she realized, was because of the faint glow of the sky behind him--some artificial lights, but probably miles away. Perhaps a city.

Then Tom came back down the hill. The dome light came on as he opened his door, and Sloan could see that his face was closed and tense.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, and was surprised at how rough her voice had become from hours of disuse.

Tom shook his head, gave her a quick glance, and got out again, this time to rummage in the trunk of the car. He came back with a bottle of designer water, which he handed to her. The water was warm and tasted unpleasantly of plastic, but she drank gratefully.

Tom, meanwhile, opened the packet that Walter had given him and spread its contents out on the dashboard and the armrest between them. It contained a map, a thin sheaf of papers, a couple of keys, and a substantial handful of cash.

Sloan held out the half-empty bottle toward Tom. “Here.”

He shook his head again, and Sloan frowned at him. “You need it as much as I do.”

He looked up, and for a moment she thought he would refuse, but then he took the bottle and drank.

Sloan picked up the map. The area it depicted was unfamiliar to her, though she was able to place it after a moment, tracing the highlighted route with a finger. “Placerville? I’ve never been there, but I think it’s not too far from Tahoe. Gold rush country.”

Tom pushed down the cap on the bottle and set it aside. “The Sierra Madres. A couple of hours’ drive from Sacramento.”

His voice was quiet, almost cold, and Sloan winced inwardly. “That’s a long way from here.”

“We’ll need to go a long way, to be safe,” Tom answered absently, and took the map to look at it more closely.

“Will the others meet us there, do you think?” Sloan asked hesitantly.

“Not if Walter planned this right. It’s less dangerous if we stay split up for a while.” Tom folded up the map. “How much longer can you keep going?”

Sloan took internal stock. “A few hours at least--if we find a bathroom and something to eat soon. Do you want me to drive?”

Tom shook his head. “Not yet.”

His face bore no expression, and suddenly Sloan couldn’t stand it. “Tom--why didn’t you tell me about your tattoo?” Anger and hurt swelled anew in her throat. “You knew what it was for, you knew we were wondering--“

Tom bit his lip. “You're right,” he said, and again his voice was hoarse. “I should have told you. It was just--I was afraid...”

He trailed off, and Sloan folded her arms over her chest. “Afraid of what?” Her anger was mixed with the guilty knowledge that she was hurting him, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

His words came out in a rush. “I was afraid, then, that you would be scared of me again if you knew what I was supposed to be. That you wouldn’t trust me any more. And the more time that went on, the more impossible it became to tell you.”

Sloan heard the echo of her own words to Ed, months ago. She had made the same argument about not telling her best friend that Tom was a member of the new species, and she remembered, ashamed, how bad she had felt.

Tom met her eyes at last, and her heart turned over painfully at the vulnerability in his gaze. “Sloan...I was expecting death in that cellar, but you walked in instead, and I could hardly believe it. I didn’t want the...our relationship...to end.”

Sloan blinked back tears. “I understand,” she said. Tom wanted so much to feel a part of warm humanity; how could she condemn his reaching out? “But if you have any more secrets, I want to know about them.” She managed a small smile, and reached out to brush her fingers across his cheek. He drew in his breath, and she felt the impact of his eyes, of his relief, as though his gaze and his subtle expressions touched her skin. Trying to lighten the mood a bit, she took a question from the feel of his own skin beneath her fingertips. “Like, why don’t you ever need to shave?”

Tom vented a tiny laugh. Catching her hand in his own, he pressed a quick kiss to her palm before letting her go and reaching for his seatbelt. “It’s a form of control we learn as adolescents--a discipline.”

Sloan gathered the papers back up and put them into their envelope, only briefly distracted by her surprised estimate of just how much cash was in that bundle. “You mean, you learn how to keep your hair from growing? Or is it just your beard?”

Tom shut his door, and the dome light went out. “Hair, beard, a certain amount of control over body temperature--though that’s only short-term, good for a few hours at best.” He started the engine and spoke over the hum. “Females are also taught a little control over their cycles, though again it’s short-term.”

“There are times when I could use that,” Sloan said enviously. “So it’s like biofeedback?”

“Much more reliable,” Tom said as he guided the car back onto the road. “Of course, stresses like illness or injury can eventually weaken our control, but so much of it is automatic.”

“Even when you were so hurt, your beard didn’t grow,” Sloan remembered, suppressing a shiver at the memory of the bruises and abrasions that had blotched Tom’s body.

He reached out in the dark and grasped her hand briefly in reassurance. “If I’d been a little more damaged, I probably wouldn’t have had the energy to spare.”

“Anything else?” Sloan asked lightly.

Tom’s head turned, and she caught just the slightest gleam of his gaze. “Reproduction.”

She could feel a blush spreading up over her throat and face. Amazed at her reaction, she wrenched her thoughts onto a scientific track. “That means that...Kevin’s real father...”

“Meant him to be born, yes. That must have been one of the projects.”

“Another tactic,” Sloan said thoughtfully. Something else occurred to her. “What about your bed? What was that for?”

Tom sighed. “I don’t know.”

Sloan blinked in surprise. “You don’t know?”

“No. All I know is that I had one but Lewis didn’t.”

“Well, that makes sense given the pattern on it.”

Tom didn’t answer, and Sloan settled back in her seat. Silence grew again, but this time it was peaceful.

* * *

 

She surfaced from sleep when they came down out of the hills and into an inhabited area. Since the pressure in her bladder was part of what woke her, Sloan was immensely grateful when Tom pulled into the parking lot of a low-key restaurant. The dashboard clock told her it was not quite eleven at night, though it felt much later. She scooped up her purse--all she’d had time to grab before Tom’s hand on her arm had propelled her out of their tiny room at the base--and got out of the car, groaning a bit at her stiffness.

By the time she made her way to their table, much refreshed by a chance to use the facilities and wash her face, Tom was perusing the laminated menu. She slid into the seat opposite and picked up her own menu. “So, what’s the next move?” she asked quietly.

“Food,” said Tom, without looking up. “Then we keep going as long as we can. I don’t think we were followed, but the further we get, the safer we’ll be.”

Sloan stared unseeingly at the colorful medley of specials and hash browns. “I hope the others are okay.”

“They should be,” Tom said, and Sloan took comfort in the firmness of his voice. “Ray is a trained professional, and Mark has his own training. And I don’t think the attackers were expecting us to escape.”

“Do you think they were members of the new species?” Sloan asked.

“Definitely,” Tom answered, and Sloan felt a chill. She was about to ask him how he thought they had found the fugitives’ hideout, but the waiter appeared.

Since breakfast had been more than twelve hours before, they ate an enormous meal. Sloan was amazed at the amount of food Tom was able to consume, but reminded herself that his higher metabolism would require it. After they left the restaurant, they made a brief stop at a gas station. Tom fueled the car while Sloan went in to buy caffeinated soda and a couple of candy bars, supplies for a long night ahead. After a moment’s thought, she added several bottles of water to her purchases.

She took the driver’s seat when they left, and Tom settled himself across from her and appeared to drop instantly into sleep. Sloan turned the radio on low, mostly for the small distraction to keep her awake, and drove back onto the highway.

It was nearly five in the morning when she pulled off the road. Tom woke instantly, unfolding his arms and sitting up.

“Your turn,” Sloan said, yawning. “Unless you want to find a motel.” They had passed through a number of small roadside towns, but they had all blurred together in Sloan’s tired mind.

“Can you keep going a while?” Tom asked, and Sloan noticed with amusement that the new species--or at least Tom’s hybrid form--was not immune to the suggestive power of a yawn.

“So long as I don’t have to drive any more, yes,” Sloan said. She pulled the state map from the glove compartment and unfolded it. “As far as I can tell, we’re somewhere around here,” and she indicated a length of road.

Tom nodded. “Good. We should reach the safe house by tomorrow afternoon.”

Sloan took the opportunity to stretch the kinks out of her back when they switched seats, and curled up in the passenger seat as they resumed their journey. The road now had lights, and she watched Tom’s profile idly in the yellow glow that brightened and dimmed in a slow pulse. His face was rather grim at rest, she thought, but then their situation was rather grim.

Her mind drifted back over time, memories of Tom surfacing. The disjointed images bloomed with unusual vividness in her sleepy brain. She remembered the sick wash of fear she had felt when Ed had told them that the monkey he’d injected with the experimental serum had died, and the peculiar, almost alien tilt of Tom’s head as he looked at her, as though the death of the monkey were of little import. She remembered him fevered in her apartment, catching her hand when she’d moved to call Ed; remembered the look on his face when he asked her what Ed could do, and the despair she’d felt when she realized Tom expected the serum to kill him, despite his assurances to the contrary.

And she remembered opening her eyes to find his battered face before her, remembered surfacing from sleep to the one thing she’d scarcely dared dream of. Remembered the helpless love in his eyes, the unbelievable relief of knowing he was safe, the hard clasp of his arms around her.

She floated further back, to a time when they did not entirely trust each other--yet, rather to her surprise, Tom had agreed to give her a blood sample. She’d taken him to the night-darkened lab and had found her fingers clumsy with nerves--and something else. Something had hummed between them that night, something that had shaken her to the core at its implications. Tom had so many faces. The mildly flirtatious FBI agent had given way to the confused and tormented attacker, and in turn to the protective, irritated, reluctant man--but this was something more, something else.

Yet her mind did not stay to puzzle over it. As sleep rose up around her, her last memory was of the lingering clasp of his hands on hers when they’d stood on the cliff and watched the new species’ houses burn. She’d reached out to touch him, and she wondered now if that was the first time someone had shown him genuine, spontaneous affection. His warm grasp followed her into sleep.

* * *

He strode through the abandoned lab, noting the lack of ongoing projects. Those who had taken the lab moved around him, but he ignored them. Their failure to capture their targets was not his fault, and their disciplining was not his responsibility. He had a more specific goal.

Whatever the scientists had been doing here was abandoned--and not by the surprise attack. Something had made them stop their research, but he could not tell what. Various people were working on the computers, but it would be some time before they got any information.

He went through each room carefully. Nothing there told him where his targets might have gone, but he was not overly worried. He would find them eventually. There was more than one way to track a fugitive, no matter the species.

The last room he entered held two cots and a scattering of clothing and luggage. He smiled at that. They would be together, which would make them easier to find.

His former protégé knew that, of course. “I expected better of you, Tom,” he murmured to the silent room. But Tom’s incomprehensible devotion was a chink in the younger man’s armor, and it could be used against him.

He picked up the sweater lying on one of the narrow mattresses, crumpled as though hastily dropped, and lifted it to his nose. _Fatigue, dull fear, stress. Cheap detergent. Dust._ Then he folded it neatly and set it back down. The sweater’s owner would not be coming back for it, but that was no reason to be untidy.

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it,” Ed muttered to himself. “I’ve had that van for fifteen years. I’ve replaced the engine, customized the back seat, fixed the transmission--twice--and now it’s all gone.”

He slumped lower in his seat. His companion, who was driving, was characteristically silent. Ed had the feeling that Mark never said anything without a good reason, and he also had the feeling that Mark would rather not have any passengers. It made Ed feel rebellious.

But grumbling about the loss of his van--which did hurt--kept away the deeper worry of what had happened to the others. Sloan, Tom, Walter, Ray--all scattered in a few minutes’ running and hasty driving. _And I’m stuck with the_ Homo dominant _stone wall here_ , Ed thought unhappily. _Sure, he wants peace, but that doesn’t mean he won’t dump me out the first chance he gets_.

Then Ed shook himself mentally. If Mark were treacherous, all he’d had to do was delay their leaving the facility, and their pursuers would now have them. The scientist shivered at how close their escape had been. Only the fact that Mark was apparently a superior driver had gotten them away. And while it looked like Sloan and Tom had fought free, the fate of Walter and Ray and the aged pickup was unknown.

 _You’d better take care of her,_ he warned Tom silently. Then laughed to himself. Even in his halfway state, the enigmatic man could probably protect Sloan better than all the rest of them put together. Ed had to smile at the thought of Tom’s devotion to Sloan. _We should all be so lucky._

Mark glanced in the rearview mirror and abruptly gunned the engine, speeding onto an off-ramp from the desert highway they’d been traveling. Ed sat up. “What--“

“Quiet!” Mark snapped. Ed subsided as the other man took the sedan down the ramp at a much higher speed than Ed thought safe. Tires squealed as the car whipped around the bend and onto the road running perpendicular to, and under, the highway. Mark slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to a stop below the overpass, half on the shoulder of the road. He held himself tensely for a moment, looking to Ed’s puzzled eyes as though he were listening for some faint sound. Then he took off his seatbelt and, without fuss or warning, hit Ed hard in the jaw and sent him bouncing into darkness.

* * *

Ray sat back in his seat and began reloading his handgun methodically. “You’re a pretty good driver,” he said conversationally, fishing a handful of bullets out of his jacket pocket.

Walter blew out his breath and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel. “I’d rather you drove, but somebody has to shoot the gun.”

“Not anymore. We left ‘em in the dust.” Ray craned his head around for one more look, but the last car pursuing them had given up the chase after Ray had blown out the tires of the two others. The elderly pickup had proven surprisingly fast, and Walter had displayed unexpected skill in guiding it across the flat desert floor. “If you make a gradual left, we should hit the highway eventually,” the detective added.

Walter cranked down his window, ignoring the way the breeze mussed his hair. It was too hot, and the air conditioning no longer worked. “Do you think the others got away?”

Ray peered out the dusty windshield. “More to the left.” He hesitated a long moment. “No way to tell, really.”

Walter glanced over, but the ex-detective’s face was turned away. The scientist’s mouth tightened, and he turned his attention back to the terrain, which was flat but not without hazards. He let several minutes pass by before he spoke again.

“I’m sorry I pulled you into this.”

Ray turned back, surprised. “I was already in it.” A reluctant smile showed. “And even if I hadn’t been, I probably would have been eaten alive with curiosity.”

Walter snorted. “I don’t want to have to explain to your wife and son that I got you killed.”

Ray’s smile disappeared, but the glint of humor remained in his eyes. “I don’t know. The way you live, I’m more likely to be talking to your next of kin.” He paused a moment. “You got any?”

Walter had to laugh. “Not anymore.”

Ray sat back into his seat and settled the gun in his shoulder holster, relaxing as further pursuit failed to appear. “There’s the highway,” he said, pointing, and Walter grunted and turned toward the ribbon of asphalt.

The detective rolled down his own window a fraction. “So, where we going?”

Walter gave the wheel an expert wrench and the pickup bounced up onto the road. “A gas station, first. After that--maybe another safe house.”

The other man looked at the indecision on Walter’s face. “You think they may have been compromised?”

Walter heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. They may have gotten some of the information when they freed Lewis. I...I was so sure they wouldn’t find us.”

Ray grimaced. “Maybe they just got lucky,” he offered, then shook his head, knowing he’d been trained better than that. “No. We have to assume they had inside information.”

Walter frowned unhappily. “The packet I gave Tom and Sloan has a safe house address, but it’s not one that belongs to that agency.”

“What about Ed and Mark?”

“That was just instructions. I only had time to grab two packets, and I figured that Mark had resources of his own.” Walter’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “In the end, it’s Tom and Sloan they want, more than Mark. They’re in more danger.”

Ray did not argue.

* * *

 

Sloan woke warm. She was lying on her back, with an unaccustomed weight pressing gently on her diaphragm. Opening her eyes, she looked down to see a familiar dark head pillowed on her stomach, much as her head had rested on him that furtive night in the spring. Looking around, Sloan found herself in a motel room that was equally shabby, despite the early sunlight that gilded it. This one, however, had only one bed--nothing opposite for a lanky scientist to sprawl on.

She sighed in sorrow at the thought of Ed, wondering where he was and how he was doing. Then she gave into impulse and ran a gentle hand over Tom’s head. His hair was surprisingly soft against her palm, and he stirred at her touch and turned to look at her.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He looked at her a long moment before speaking. “I wasn’t asleep.” He smiled faintly.

“What were you doing, listening to my heartbeat?” Sloan asked facetiously.

“Yes.” Tom paid no attention to her astonishment, but sat up, neatly catching the blanket as it slid from his shoulders. “We should get moving.”

 _Listening to my..._ Sloan shook herself. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“If you’re quick,” Tom answered. “We can get breakfast on the way.”

Sloan sat up, feeling her body still aching with weariness. She had only slept a few hours, she estimated, and what she most wanted--besides more sleep--was a long, hot shower and a cup of really good coffee.

She had to settle for a quick, lukewarm shower and a cup of mediocre coffee. Tom found a convenience store, but he made Sloan stay in the car while he bought food within, explaining that her hair made her too easy to remember. Sloan grumbled, but she could see the sense in it.

“What about the car?” she pointed out when he returned laden with cups and food. “The bullet holes aren’t exactly inconspicuous.”

Tom handed her a bag containing fruit and plastic-wrapped sandwiches. “That’s true, but we don’t really have time to get rid of it and find something else, not without attracting more attention. We’ll have to take the risk.”

Sloan sipped the scalding coffee as he started the car and pulled out of the gas station. _This is almost second nature for him,_ she realized. _He’s spent a lifetime hiding himself and learning to cover his tracks. How often has he had to flee a situation, I wonder?_

But she forbore to ask him, unwilling to put stress on their new peace so soon. Instead she delved into the bag, and grimaced. “No donuts?”

They made their gradual way north, choosing less-traveled roads when possible, trading speed for stealth. Eventually they rose up through round, brown hills topped with flocks of white-bladed windmills, turning in breeze-spurred formation; every so often the crisp tan grass would be scored and blackened by the scorch of some extinguished fire. Massive, brilliant white clouds piled on the horizon but did not block the sun. The hills gave way to steeper slopes dense with fir and pine; the road turned to swooping curves instead of slicing straight through the land. The air grew cooler, and Sloan rolled down her window to sniff appreciatively at the spicy smell. Every so often they would be able to see through gaps in the nearby trees to the forested slope on the far side of a valley; once in a while they even caught glimpses of snow on higher peaks.

It was late afternoon when they passed Placerville. Walter’s map actually led them further and higher, to a small sprawl of residential area dominated more by trees than houses. A series of narrowing roads took them into the edge of the development, to where the houses were spaced on large lots. Finally they pulled into the driveway of what appeared to be someone’s summer home. A weedy flower garden struggled under the shade of a tall pine; the door was up three shallow steps and nestled between the wall of the garage and a picture window. As Sloan got out of the car, she saw a bright streak dodge past and slow to hover near one of the flowers. _A hummingbird..._

Her delight faded as she saw Tom pull the gun out from under his seat. “Stay there,” he instructed quietly, and paced silently off around the side of the garage. Sloan huffed in annoyance but followed orders, and looked around without leaving her spot by the car.

The house sat near the road, but the few houses nearby were screened by trees. Pine needles littered much of the ground, and bright yellow mustard bloomed at the edge of the street. A somewhat battered mailbox held pride of place at the end of the driveway. The sky here was a clear hard blue, and while Sloan was growing hot in the sun, she knew that it would be pleasantly cool beneath the trees.

A sudden noise made her spin back toward the house. Gears ground as the garage door opened, and Tom gradually came into view from the feet up. “It’s safe,” he said unnecessarily. “I’ll put the car away.”

Sloan stepped past him and into the dimness of the garage. A large upright freezer hummed to itself, and a door stood open in the back wall. Going through, Sloan found herself in a hallway that apparently ran most of the length of the house, front to back. She turned left, and walked into an open kitchen that slid, with little ceremony and no walls, into a living-dining area, one corner occupied by a spacious fireplace.

A few minutes of exploration revealed that the house was not large. It had only one floor and two bedrooms, but it was half-wrapped around a generous deck a story up off the sloping ground. Sliding glass doors led onto the deck from the dining room and the master bedroom, adding an impression of spaciousness. It was comfortably furnished with items that looked as though they were chosen for convenience rather than to match each other or the wallpaper. Looking around, Sloan thought that it seemed as though the nonexistent occupants--a retired couple, perhaps--had gone on vacation for a few days. It was a far cry from the battered underground laboratory, or the rather primitive cabin in the woods. _Where on earth does Walter find these places? And who takes care of them for him?_ A thin layer of dust was the only indication that the place was not lived in.

Tom came back in to find her gazing out the dining room door at the thin forest beyond the deck. “It’s lovely,” she said softly, and he did not contradict her.

“According to Walter’s note, there should be some clothing in the hall closet that might fit us.” He set the gun down on the kitchen counter, and Sloan hid her flinch at the sight of it.

“Sounds great,” she said warmly. “First dibs on a shower, if I can find some towels.”

At last she got her hot shower, followed by clean, if slightly baggy, clothes. When she emerged into the kitchen, she found a pot of something aromatic simmering on the stove, and no sign of Tom. A few minutes later, however, she heard the shower in the guest bathroom turn on; she smiled and opened the refrigerator.

What she really wanted was a salad, but there were no fresh greens, which made sense given the house’s lack of permanent residents. Instead Sloan rooted out some frozen vegetables and discovered in the process a package of dinner rolls. By the time Tom appeared, dinner was almost ready.

Sloan stood and gazed at him, a slow smile spreading over her face, until he set aside the towel he held and smiled back, puzzled. “What?”

Sloan laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything so casual,” she said, gesturing at the black sweatpants and dark blue T-shirt. “You’re usually so...tidy.”

He shrugged. “It’s part of the role,” he said, but did not seem disturbed by her comment.

They made a pleasant supper in the open room, enjoying the reddening light as the sun set. The fates of Ed and Ray, Walter and Mark, were an ever-present worry at the back of Sloan’s mind, but she did her best not to think about it. There was nothing she could do right now, and she knew that if she grew upset, Tom would pick it up. So she teased him gently about his cooking skills, and actually won a laugh or two from him.

Eventually the growing dusk made her rise and turn on a few lights. Tom carried a stack of dishes to the sink, then picked up the phone in the living room, consulted one of the sheets from Walter’s packet, and punched in a series of numbers. Sloan had finished clearing the table and was beginning to wash the dishes when he hung up.

“All the others have checked in safely,” he said quietly, and Sloan took a deep breath of relief. “So far, so good.” He pulled out drawers until he found a dishtowel, and began drying the dishes. Sloan went on washing.

“So what do we do next?” she asked finally. “Do we meet up somewhere?”

Tom shook his head and set a plate aside. “According to Walter’s instructions, not yet. It’s too soon. We’re supposed to wait at least a week before trying to get together.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Sloan asked. She trusted his judgment more than she did Walter’s.

“At the moment, yes.” Tom took a cup from her dripping hands. “Is that the last one?”

“That’s it,” Sloan answered, and pulled the plug in the sink. She watched the water drain away, then looked up to see Tom watching her. “What?” she asked, half smiling.

Tom hung the towel up carefully. “Sloan--there’s something I need to tell you.” He had closed himself up again, and Sloan felt dread gathering in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it, Tom?” She reached out for his hand, but he pulled away.

“You asked me last night if I had any other secrets,” he began, then trailed off. To Sloan’s educated eye, he looked unhappy, almost frightened. She nodded encouragingly.

“I was...some of my training was as an interrogator,” he finally said, staring at the floor. “It was part of my assignments, to obtain information if necessary. I was...good at it.”

He looked up, searching her face. “Do you understand?”

Sloan let the cold feeling wash over her and recede. “You were a--torturer?”

“Not exactly.” Tom hesitated. “Not always. Never for pleasure, Sloan, believe me! It’s part of a chameleon’s training. We--they--have to be able to get information quickly so they can act on it. It was just what one of the things I was supposed to do.”

Sloan forced herself to think past her first instinctive revulsion, to really see the man who stood before her with such muted pleading in his eyes. She already knew he had killed, on orders, and she knew he had disobeyed those orders--once for her, once before her. Whatever he had been before they’d met, he was not the same now. He had made the conscious decision to change, to be more...human.

And she remembered the night he had told her that he had killed, and his stark statement that nothing could change what he had done. Slowly, the same words rose to her lips.

“Tom...who you are, what you’re trying to do...that’s what makes the difference. That’s what can set it right.”

Their eyes met, and Tom’s gaze softened in relief. Sloan stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug. She could feel the tension draining out of him, his muscles relaxing under her hands, and she had to quell the fierce, impossible longing to soothe every hurt he had suffered from his kind.

* * *

 

Full dark had fallen when Sloan went onto the deck. She wasn’t tired enough to sleep as yet, but had been unable to settle in the living room. Tom had apparently become absorbed in a history book about the Southwest that he’d found, but Sloan was restless with a tension that finally drove her to her feet. She felt Tom’s glance as she stepped out onto the deck, but he said nothing and returned to his reading.

There were no lights visible, aside from the dim lamps within the house. Sloan folded her arms against the chill, looked up, and drew in her breath. The sky above was thick with stars, and as her eyes adjusted, more came into view. Eventually she could see the thin veil of the Milky Way, dusted and sparkling with greater and lesser stars. Their faint, fine luminescence made stark cut-outs of the pine branches and the roof-edges that surrounded the pool of sky. The brilliance of the Universe shone down on Sloan, and she tipped her head back and let it bathe her. She caught her breath at the sudden brief flare of a meteorite, moving just too fast for her eyes to focus properly, and remembered the childhood ritual. _I wish...I wish..._

She could not complete the thought, could not decide what to wish for. The safety of their friends? Peace between the new species and the old? An end to the running and hiding and fear?

Gradually Sloan became aware that her neck was stiff, her feet were aching, and her whole body was chilled. She took one last, regretful look at the stars, then went inside.

Tom looked up from his book as she slid the door shut. “Are you all right?”

Sloan shrugged; her tension had not dissipated into the night air. “I guess I’m tired.”

Tom nodded. Feeling suddenly awkward, Sloan hesitated, then turned and made for the master bedroom. Tom had brought her purse in from the car earlier and had left it on the big bed, and she had acceded to his choice. But now she wondered where he was going to sleep. In the abandoned military base Tom had dragged an extra cot into her room to guard her; in her apartment he had taken the couch. There was a pair of twin beds in the guest bedroom, but if she knew Tom, he would want to be closer to her. And, she realized, she wanted him close. But she didn’t want to push him, either. Their relationship had grown in delicate stages, and sometimes things felt too fragile to risk a precipitous step.

While searching for clothes, Sloan had found no nightclothes, so she substituted a T-shirt and a pair of loose shorts. After brushing her teeth, she opened the curtains and the sliding door that led out to the deck, leaving only the screen shut, and curled up in the bed. But the cool air failed to soothe, and she could not sleep.

She had managed only a slight doze when she came abruptly awake. The only things she could hear were crickets chirping outside, and her own breathing; but then she saw the shadow move past the sliding door, barely outlined by a light still burning in the kitchen, and recognized Tom on one of his periodic checks. The silhouetted figure stood outside her door for a long time, arms folded, head tilted back, and Sloan knew he was watching the stars as she had. Then he sighed, deeply enough for her to hear, and bent his head.

 _This is silly,_ Sloan thought, and she took her courage in both hands and threw back the covers. Tom looked up quickly as she padded across the carpet and slid open the screen. “Are you coming to bed?” Sloan asked softly.

For a long, terrible moment she thought she had guessed wrong. Then Tom’s eyes searched hers in the near-darkness, and he reached out and carefully, tenderly, traced the line of her cheek. She stepped out the door, and his head came down to hers.

It was the same; a gentle exploration that turned into a desperate hunger on both their parts. The soft sound he made against her mouth was one of pleased, almost disbelieving discovery, and Sloan’s heart pounded at the taste of him. The world receded under the wash of sensation between them as Tom clenched his fingers in her hair and drew her closer still. Then there was carpet under her feet again, instead of the wood of the deck. It took Sloan a confused moment to realize that the cold metal her hand had brushed was the gun, tucked against the small of Tom’s back. He disentangled one hand long enough to get rid of it; she didn’t know where he put it, and she didn’t care. She slid her hands under his shirt, running her fingers over the receding scar tissue and feeling him shiver. He was warm skin and quiet strength and compact grace, and it came hazily to Sloan that she had wanted to do this ever since she had helped him off with his shirt the sunny afternoon he first woke in her bed.

Her head spun briefly as Tom tumbled them both onto the bed, twisting so that Sloan landed on top of him. Their mouths parted long enough for Sloan to urge Tom’s shirt over his head; then he drew her back down to him as though being apart was not to be borne. She explored his torso with eager hands, stopping only when he pulled up the hem of her shirt. As soon as it was gone, she found their positions reversed, and Tom returning her interest with interest.

“Have you ever done this before?” she managed when he lifted his head from hers for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he replied breathlessly. “Does it matter?”

Sloan grinned. “Absolutely not,” she said, and her laugh trailed off into a gasp as his hands slid lower.

Their pace slowed, turned into a heady, almost dreamlike discovery of one another. Skin heated, voices went soft and low in the darkness, and it seemed to Sloan that some of Tom’s empathic ability must be rubbing off on her, or else how could she feel so close to him?...as though every nuance of his inner self was as visible to her as hers was to him. Tom’s possible experience may have been lost to his memory, but there was no hesitation in either of them, nor any barriers. And when the last rush was over, the unity remained.

* * *

 

Tom watched as the clean light of dawn entered the room, bringing things into view so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible. It caught on Sloan as she lay asleep in his arms, leaving her hair dark but making her pale skin seem to glow. Her soft breathing was, as always, a sound of peace to him, of life; her scent filled his lungs and warmed him. He’d slept for a while, but then had woken to savor the weight and the closeness of her.

It was something he’d wanted for a very long time...not just the physical, but the lack of restraint, of withholding. But he’d been afraid to take that last step, even after his escape from captivity and the certainties that had come with it. He could not bear the thought of Sloan’s possible rejection, not when she was nearly all his new life. So he had waited, letting their bond deepen, exercising the patience that had been one of his most vaunted skills; waited until she was sure she was ready. And now...now they were closer than ever.

He wasn't quite sure, at first, what it was that drew him to Sloan. Her feelings, certainly; her intensity, her empathy, the clean honesty of her--these, and something unnamable, had kept him from carrying out his assignment and leaving her dead on her apartment floor. But he had gone out her window with no intention of ever seeing her again. He had not had any idea what to do next--that being the second time he had defied orders--but he knew that going near her again would endanger her.

Yet she had sought him out, refusing to let her questions lie. Her insatiable curiosity had brought her to him, and though he had turned aside her queries, he had admired her courage. After that, when she showed that she was willing to take the risk despite his warnings, he gave into the pull, the desire to see her again.

Perhaps it was because she challenged him, expected different things of him, asked him to make choices that he had not been permitted to make. All his life—the part that he could remember, anyway--those around him had expected him to be obedient, respectful, a quick learner; eventually, they had expected him to do as he was told, to use the skills he had been taught, to be willing--as they were--to give his life for their cause. And to take life for it. But Sloan looked at him and saw the person inside the skills, the person he had not been allowed to be. She saw beyond what he had done, and made him question all that he had been taught, even more than he had questioned it before he had met her. Sloan was the first person to care more about Tom, himself, than the chameleon.

That caring was, he thought, the core of it. She had fascinated him to the point where his doubts had combined with her strange attraction to make him let her live. Yet even when she was trembling with fear of him and terror of death in his hands, she still felt _for_ him.--compassion for his confusion and whatever had made him the way he was. She was certain, based on no logic at all, that he was not the killer he'd been brought up to be, and she knew he was hurting No one had ever cared about him that way, not that he could remember. Only Sloan.

And that fascination had led him to this--to the emotion humans called love--a facile word for something so complex, so powerful, so humbling. It had lured him from the sterile world he’d been dedicated to bring about, led him into danger and change and simple joy. The feel of Sloan’s arm wrapped around his waist, her pulse beneath his palm, the silky spill of her hair over his chest; these were the seal on her acceptance of him. Some last vestige of cold had vanished from him sometime during the night. _This is where I belong_. The feeling returned, the feeling he’d had when he had escaped his captors and found his way back to Sloan. _I belong with her, always._

Sloan stirred, and he pulled the sheet up over her shoulder, afraid that the cool air coming in through the screen had chilled her. But she opened her eyes and smiled, that sweet sleepy smile that always made his heart turn over; and this time he did not have to hold back. He smiled in return and kissed her awake.

They spent their days easily--taking walks and buying fresh fruit from a roadside stand, trying to be creative with the limited range of foodstuffs in the big freezer in the garage, putting together a makeshift feeder for the local hummingbirds. They met no one besides the fruit seller on their walks, though they did see or hear a car pass once in a while. It was almost like that vacation she had threatened to take, Sloan thought amusedly. The knowledge that Ed and the others were safe--as safe as they could be, anyway--allowed her to relax somewhat and enjoy the break. They lit fires in the fireplace even though it wasn’t cold, and ended up spending the night in front of the hearth once. They learned each other’s responses and pleasures, and sometimes just took long naps together, though Sloan usually woke to find Tom watching her, his face unaccustomedly soft. Tom read aloud to her from the books that they had found in the guest bedroom, and teased her about not having any scientific journals to peruse.

He knew it couldn’t last, but Tom savored every moment of their hiding. All his secrets were out, there was nothing more to keep from Sloan; even the worst of them had not driven her away.

* * *

 

 _There._ He lowered the binoculars, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. Finding them had been more difficult than he’d expected, but he had succeeded. Now completion of his mission was a matter of simple timing. The isolated area that made the house such a good place to hide also made it a good place to attack--no neighbors close enough to be disturbed.

The most efficient method would be to strike quickly, without giving Tom a chance to react. He anticipated success, but one always factored in the unexpected, and Tom was one of the best he’d ever trained. He wasn’t certain, anymore, if his former apprentice’s inhibitions would hold.

But he still wondered what had drawn Tom from his allegiances, his life’s work. Was it something unique, a combination of the younger man’s psyche and random events, or was there some flaw in the training program? If there was a flaw, it had to be removed.

He returned to his car and drove away. Time to formulate a plan. It would not be long now.

* * *

His head hurt. Not as bad as when he’d woken from the tranquilizer administered by Tom’s kidnappers, but bad enough. And his jaw throbbed even worse. Ed lifted a hand toward his face, unwilling as yet to open his eyes, but his fingers were caught in a warm grasp. “Careful.”

Ed pried his lids apart, wincing a bit at the sunlight streaming into the car. He found himself still in his seat, slumped against the car door. Mark let his hand go and picked up a plastic bag filled with crushed ice. “Try this.”

Ed blinked a couple of times, then took the bag and held it gingerly to his face. He hissed at the initial pain, but then the ice began to numb the bruise. “You going to explain why you did that?” he muttered, trying not to wince.

Mark’s inexpressive face showed just a hint of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We were being tracked, and while I could mask myself for a little while, you...”

Ed explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A small cut on his cheek, but none of his teeth were loose. He considered a number of responses, including swearing, but from what Tom had told them about the new species’ ability to sense the presence of others, he had to admit that Mark’s solution had a certain logic.

“Next time,” Ed finally said dryly, “let me know and I’ll put myself out.” His foot nudged his doctor’s bag where it sat under the dashboard.

Mark looked down at the bag, then back up at Ed. For a long moment he was silent, and Ed suspected that Mark’s encounters with their merry little band of fugitives was forcing the _Homo dominant_ to think along new lines. “All right,” was all he said.

The scientist sat up a little straighter and glanced around. The sedan was parked in front of a small convenience store, which explained where Mark had gotten the ice. The _Homo dominant_ was unloading a grocery bag, piling items on the dashboard--bottled water, packets of nuts, a few pieces of fruit. Ed regarded a battered apple and sighed. “What’s our next move?”

Mark set a banana next to the apple and delved back into the bag. “We need to keep moving, though eventually we’ll have to lie low for a while. Preferably in someplace more populated than this area.”

Ed took a longer look out the car windows. The convenience store sat in a small strip of businesses that all looked as though they had seen better days, and the other side of the highway was nothing but dusty bare ground as far as the eye could see. Apparently they had not gotten far from the desert while Ed had been out.

He took the bag away from his jaw and ran his fingers cautiously over the numbed skin. Flipping down the visor, he angled his head to see his face in the mirror. _Not a lot of swelling. I don’t think I’ll have much of a bruise._ He set the ice down on the dashboard, and Mark handed him a package of peanuts.

“Do you think the others made it out?” Ed asked quietly, tearing open the plastic.

Mark took a long drink from a bottle of water before answering. “I think so.”

It hurt to chew, but Ed was hungry and he managed. Lunch had never happened, and his stomach was very empty. They sat and munched in silence for a little while before Mark capped his bottle and put the key in the ignition.

“D’you want me to drive?” Ed offered abruptly, not sure what the protocol was but feeling that he should say something.

Mark looked faintly surprised. “Not now. Maybe later,” he replied, and turned on the engine. Ed fastened his seatbelt hastily.

“So, do we try to meet up with the others?” Ed opened a bottle of water for himself and drank carefully.

“Not for a few days,” Mark said, eyes on the road. “Dr. Attwood said something about a number to call?”

Ed fished in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper that Ray had handed him just before they’d fled. “Looks like a map for a voice mail system. Guess we’re supposed to check in.”

Mark nodded. “Tonight, then.”

They lapsed into silence. Ed picked up the soggy bag of ice and nursed his aching jaw, thinking furiously about the events of the day. He did not know who had come after them at the hidden compound, but he had his suspicions. _Had to be the new species. Walter said the government agency was in a mess since his boss got killed. I wonder if it was Lewis? I thought he was supposed to be a lone wolf._

Finally he sighed and dumped the ice out the window, twisting in his seat to see it bouncing on the road behind them. It glittered in the lowering sun.

“Where are we headed?” he said, turning back around. “You said we needed to go somewhere more populated.”

Mark glanced over briefly. “Los Angeles. We should get there by tomorrow evening.”

Ed sighed, foreseeing hours in the car again. _Oh well. If it keeps us away from those guys who were chasing us..._

They made excellent time, mostly because Mark refused to stop for more than the barest of necessities. Eventually he gave up the driver’s seat to Ed and napped for a few hours, and that set a pattern for the night and the next day. They took turns driving and trying to sleep, stopping only to fill the gas tank and stretch their limbs. They made it to the city as the sun was setting, and were immediately caught in traffic.

“Do we have a destination in mind?” Ed asked from the passenger seat, a little sarcastically. Mark’s “I-know-best” attitude was getting on his nerves, though the scientist had to admit that it was justified for the most part.

Mark shook his head, the weariness in his face more pronounced. “Someplace to stay where we’ll be inconspicuous.”

“Hmm.” Ed thumbed through memory. He was not overly familiar with this area of the city, but he knew there had to be some hotels not too far away. _Something middle-of-the-road...hey!_

He sat up in his seat and peered out through the windshield. About fifty yards down the sidewalk ahead of their crawling car were two people in outlandish getups--costumes that he recognized. An idea began to form. Rolling down the window, he leaned his head out, ignoring Mark’s alarm.

“Hey! Commander! Where’s the hotel?”

The two looked up and grinned fiercely, and one of them gestured further down the road. “Two blocks and turn right!”

“Great! Thanks,” and Ed drew his head back in and rolled the window up. “What day is it?” he demanded.

Mark looked at him as though Ed had taken leave of his senses. “Friday.”

Ed smiled in satisfaction. “Terrific. I know just where we can go to be inconspicuous for a couple of days.”

It took some fast talking to get Mark into the hotel, especially when he saw the large number of costumed figures milling about. Ed had to explain what a Klingon was and why someone would dress up as one, but finally Mark agreed to go in. Ed mentally crossed his fingers. He had enough cash to get them both memberships, but he wasn’t sure how far Mark would go for the sake of camouflage.

But once inside, Mark seemed to cede control to Ed, and allowed himself to be steered through the crowd of very odd people. “I’ve never heard of a science fiction convention,” he said as they waited in the registration line.

Ed shrugged. “Most people don’t know about them unless they’re fans,” he explained. “I haven’t been to one in years, myself, but when I was in college I used to go all the time.”

“And you think this will hide us?” Mark said doubtfully.

“Are you kidding? Would you think to look for us here?”

“There is that,” the _Homo dominant_ admitted, looking around. “I take it costumes are not required?”

“Nah. But we can get some if you think they’ll hide us better.” Ed stepped up to the registration table and bought two memberships, carefully writing “Abbott” on one badge and “Costello” on the other. “We can see if they have any rooms left, too.”

The hotel did have rooms, and Mark brought out his own hoard of cash to pay for two nights. Ed’s eyes bugged a little at the amount Mark had, but he approved--the transaction would leave no electronic trail for snoopers to follow. He carefully pretended not to notice when Mark presented a false ID as well. Then he pulled the _Homo dominant_ into the dealer’s room, insisting that they needed a little more camouflage.

By the time they made their way to their room, Ed was desperate for a shower and a real bed to sleep in, but they were both properly attired for a convention. Mark sported a _Burning Zone_ T-shirt and a pair of cheap sunglasses, and Ed was wishing that he had managed to talk the other man into a pair of Vulcanoid ears. Ed himself had found a Classic Trek uniform tunic and had added several slogan buttons before he had managed to tear himself away from the button vendor.

They spent the next day drifting around the convention as unobtrusively as possible, and Ed found himself explaining various TV shows, movies, and jokes to Mark. The _Homo dominant_ was not ignorant of human culture, but he had not been exposed to this aspect before, and his curiosity was nearly insatiable. Ed insisted that Mark watch “Star Wars,” declaring that it was essential to his cultural experience, and then regretted it when Mark spent a couple of hours afterwards discussing the mythological aspects of the movie with two rabid fans. Still, the convention experience on the whole seemed to relax Mark somewhat, for which Ed was grateful. Checking in on Walter’s phone number had reassured Ed that the other two pairs were safe, at least for the moment, but that did not stop his worrying.

* * *

The outside air was still crisp when Tom slid open the kitchen door and walked silently out onto the deck, but sunlight was beginning to bring out the scent of the redwood boards. It was two weeks into their hiding; Tom had woken early and decided to get his exercises out of the way. Sloan was still asleep in the master bedroom. _Considering how late we were up last night--_ Tom smiled to himself-- _she should stay asleep until I get breakfast started._

He moved smoothly through his routine, the only sounds he made being deepened breathing and the occasional quiet footfall. A blue jay dropped down to the roof’s edge to watch him, but when it decided he didn’t have any food, it flew off again. Idly he noted squirrels rooting through the scrub and pine needles in the lot beyond the deck, but there were no other signs of life.

The only thing on his mind when he stepped back into the kitchen was a shower, but a second later all his senses were on alert. _Somebody’s here._ His first thought was for Sloan, and for an instant he considered going back out and through the other door to the master bedroom, but she’d locked that door last night, and breaking through it would be noisy. Instead he slid a knife silently from the block on the counter and moved stealthily toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

As he rounded the corner, he tried to pinpoint the presence he knew was there, but it eluded focus. Then the door to the garage, behind him, slammed open. He whirled in time to meet the figure that came through, but not in time to keep his grip on the knife. An expert blow sent it spinning away, and then he was grappling furiously with the intruder. An intruder he knew, knew too well, now that the masking had stopped. His opponent gave a tremendous heave, and Tom was pushed backward, landing on his backside on the kitchen floor. Before he could roll to his feet, the intruder had a gun aimed at his heart. Tom held very still, staring up in cold fury and fear at the attacker now standing in the kitchen. _Lewis..._

The older man shook his head. “Sloppy, Tom,” he chided. “I trained you better than that.” Lewis’ hands were utterly steady, Tom noted, realizing with dismay that he was at a complete disadvantage. He prayed that Lewis did not know that Sloan was in the house, even though it was hopeless. Lewis knew. _And he’ll kill her if you can’t figure out some way to stop him,_ he reminded himself. But this was the man who had taught him almost everything. There was no defensive move he could make that Lewis would not anticipate.

The _Homo dominant_ cocked his head and regarded his former protégé. “You know why I’m here, of course.”

“To eliminate me,” Tom replied, not taking his eyes from Lewis. He stood up carefully, knowing that the other man watched his every move. His next best hope was that Sloan remained asleep, that she did not walk into what would be his death. Lewis, ever efficient, would probably shoot her as she slept, and then arrange things so it appeared that Tom had killed her and then himself _. At least that way she won’t suffer._ Lewis’ gun was barrel-heavy with a silencer, so the shot that would take Tom’s life would not wake her.

“To eliminate both of you,” Lewis corrected. “You can be grateful it’s been decided that there’s no need to get information from either of you. The desert lab was remarkably uninformative, but it was clear enough that your scientists had not achieved any results in whatever it was they were trying to do.” His look of veiled amusement faded and his gaze grew sharper. “Why did you do it, Tom? I want to know. Why did you turn your back on us?”

 _Stall. He may grow careless._ It was probably a vain hope, but it was all Tom had. “I told you before. I couldn’t do what I was asked to do anymore.” Slowly, slowly, he began to gather his balance. At this distance, Lewis would not miss, but Tom might, possibly, be able to kill him before he himself died, if he could close with the older man.

“No. What changed your mind? Not Doctor Parker, surely.”

“She was part of it,” Tom said slowly. “But the humans have something we don’t, Lewis.”

His former mentor snorted. “Weakness. Futility.”

Tom shook his head, gaze never wavering. “No. Their emotions. Feeling doesn’t make them weak, it makes them strong. It brings them together in ways our devotion to duty never could.”

“They’re doomed,” Lewis said coldly. “Their ‘feelings’ won’t save them.”

 _I’m running out of time._ Tom shifted the conversation. “How did you find me, Lewis?”

A small smile moved across Lewis’ face. “I can always find you, Tom. No matter where you go or what you do. You should have realized that.”

“How did you get away from the government?” Tom persisted.

“I had help,” the _Homo dominant_ told him. “Unlike yourself. I was impressed, by the way, that you were able to escape on your own; the confinement was formidable. Unless, of course, you were helped by someone on the inside?”

Tom frowned. “Were the deaths really necessary?”

“Of course they were.” Lewis shook his head at Tom’s small movement. “No. Stay where you are.... The deaths were a warning. You should understand that.”

“As mine will be?”

“As yours will be. And hers.”

Tom held back the spasm of rage at Lewis’ words, and poised himself inwardly. Lewis’ expression altered again, this time to one of faint puzzlement. “What did they do to you while they held you, Tom? You feel...different.”

“I don’t know,” Tom lied. “They didn’t tell me anything.” Which was true enough.

Lewis shrugged. “Perhaps your friends can do an autopsy. If they live that long.” His grip tightened on the gun, and Tom braced himself. _I won’t make it--_

Tom’s eyes widened in horror as Sloan, tousled with sleep, appeared in the doorway behind his former mentor. He’d been concentrating so hard on Lewis that he had failed to feel her awaken.

Apparently the same was true for Lewis. He turned his head in surprise, though his aim did not waver, and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips. “Good morning, Doctor--“

Tom launched himself across the space between them. The explosion of the shot sounded unnaturally loud in his ears, as though the silencer had failed; he waited for the impact, but he felt nothing as he slammed into Lewis and they went sprawling.

Tom turned the fall into a controlled roll that ended with him on top, one hand holding down Lewis’ gun arm. But there was no resistance, and Tom blinked in surprise. Lewis was staring at the ceiling, and a small crimson trickle appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Tom looked up, his body still doubting that he’d escaped injury. Sloan stood beside them, deathly pale, with Tom’s gun held in both white-knuckled hands.

Glancing back down, Tom recognized the flaccidity he’d seen before, and automatically checked for a pulse even though he knew it would not be there. Sitting back on his heels, he nudged Lewis’ gun away from his hand--another reflex--and turned back to Sloan, who had not moved. “Good for you,” he said calmly.

She made a small noise, eyes huge. Tom stood up and took the handgun gently away from her, setting it down on the carpet. “Sloan?” he asked, enveloping her hands in his. Her fingers were icy cold.

Sloan blinked several times, then tore her gaze from Lewis’ still form and looked up at him. “He was going to kill you,” she whispered.

Tom tried to rub some warmth into her hands. “He didn’t,” he returned quietly. She looked shocky, and he didn’t like it. Putting an arm around her, he guided her back down the hallway and made her sit on the bed, shutting the door firmly behind them. Crouching in front of her, he took her hands again. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes were still enormous, but they focused on him. “He’s dead?” she asked, her voice high and strained.

“Very.” Tom gave her a small, approving smile. “It was an excellent shot.”

Sloan made another noise, between a groan and a sigh, and pulled her hands from his to cover her face. “I can’t believe I did that,” she said, muffled.

Tom straightened and sat down beside her, putting one arm carefully around her waist. Her body was stiff, but she leaned against him without hesitation. “It’s a good thing you did. Good for both of us.” He reached out and pulled her arms down, making her look at him. “He would have killed us, Sloan, and then he would have killed Ed and Walter and Ray. You saved all of us.”

Sloan shook her head, but more in disbelief, he thought, than negation. She swallowed and pressed her face against his shoulder, and he stroked her hair for a long time while she trembled.

When she calmed, he let her go and went into the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth and a glass of water. He made her drink, then bathed her face and still-chilled hands with the cloth.

“Will you be all right if I leave you for a little while?” he asked, taking the empty glass.

Sloan looked up, startled. “Why?”

“I have to get him out of the hallway.” Tom squeezed her hand gently. “It will only take a few minutes.”

Sloan let out a breath, and gave him a very shaky smile. “Sure. I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Tom let her go and left the room.

Sloan sat on the bed and listened to the sounds through the open door. The crisp sound of a sheet snapped open, the rustle of cloth, a faint grunt as Tom lifted what lay there. The click as the door to the garage opened, the thud of it closing. The dispassionate observer in the back of her brain noted coolly that it was convenient to have a lover who knew what she was feeling; no tedious explanations were necessary for the roil of shock, revulsion, and guilty relief in her stomach. She had come abruptly awake, not knowing what had brought her up from sleep, and had listened for Tom. But instead of water running or the clink of china, she’d heard his voice, too low for her to make out the words. And another voice had answered--one that she still heard in nightmares from time to time. _Lewis!_ She’d thrust her fear down as quickly as she could, afraid of alerting him to her presence; then, wondering what to do, she’d spotted the gun.

Her fear proved stronger than her hatred of firearms, and she’d picked it up gingerly, trying to remember how to take off the safety. When she slipped into the hallway, the voices grew clearer, and Sloan had walked slowly toward the kitchen, not sure what she was doing but knowing she had to do something. And she’d heard Lewis talking about killing both of them, killing _Tom_ , and his words seemed to take her out of herself. All she wanted to do was to stop the man who threatened Tom’s life. And she had. Her mind kept replaying the event; over and over she squeezed the trigger, felt the kick of the gun, and saw Lewis going down under Tom’s lightning tackle, never to move again.

A few minutes later the door to the garage opened again and she heard Tom come back inside. Sloan wondered what he had done with the body, and squashed a wild giggle at the thought that he’d stashed Lewis in the freezer. _Not enough room..._

Tom walked into the room and opened the sliding door to the deck, then turned back to her. “Do you think you could eat something?”

She looked up at him; his face was in shadow, but his voice was calm and matter-of-fact. _Out of everyone I know, he would understand,_ she thought suddenly _. He won’t judge me._

She straightened. “I’ll try,” she said, and stood up. Tom held out a hand, and she crossed to him on shaky legs and let him lead her across the deck to the kitchen. All her senses seemed sharper than usual; the sun-warmed boards were almost hot beneath her feet, the birdsong was louder, the air she breathed in was a definite impact on her consciousness. _It’s the shock,_ she diagnosed silently _. My body’s overreacting._

Tom sat her down at the table and went about efficiently fixing breakfast. Sloan watched him and thought about the way they seemed able to switch roles when the occasion called for it. When Tom was recovering from his captivity, he had been content to let Sloan and Ed handle things; now, when they were running and hiding, he took the lead, and she was happy to let him _. He doesn’t need to control things,_ she mused. _Maybe because he always followed orders. But it makes a nice change from macho idiots who can’t ask for directions..._

She could not finish the fruit and cereal that Tom set in front of her, but she ate enough to satisfy him, and he made her drink all the tea. When they were through, she automatically began gathering the dirty dishes together, but he took them away from her. “No.”

Sloan let her hands drop. “Why not?”

“You’re going to take a shower,” Tom said. “I’ll do the dishes.”

For a moment she thought about arguing, cooperation notwithstanding, but decided that she didn’t have the energy. Besides, Tom was giving her the stern look that told her he would not take no for an answer.

So she let him walk her back across the deck, well aware that he was deliberately avoiding the hallway. _Of course, Lewis would have bled..._ Sloan’s stomach dipped, and she cut the thought off hastily. Tom shot her a sharp glance, but said nothing.

She spent a long time under very hot water, feeling as though she were trying, futilely, to wash Lewis’ death from her skin. Once before, she had thought briefly that she’d killed someone, when she hit a _Homo dominant_ man with Ray’s car; but she had been too frantic with worry about Tom to check, and when they had emerged from the cellar where she had found him held captive, the man had vanished. Whether he had gone under his own power or Tom’s mother had returned to help him away, Sloan did not know or care. This time, though, there was no question. She hardly noticed when tears mixed with the water running down her face.

Tom was waiting for her when she emerged, pink with heat and scrubbing. He wrapped her in the huge bathrobe they’d found in one of the closets, made her sit down on the bed, and began combing the tangles out of her wet hair. By the time he was done she could barely keep her eyes open; she lay down, and fell asleep even as his kiss brushed her forehead.

* * *

 

Tom stood back and watched the lines of tension in Sloan’s face relax. The medical kit in the pantry was much more complete than those usually found in homes, thanks to Walter, and the mild sedative he’d put into her tea was more than enough to ensure that she would sleep for a few hours. _Enough to let the shock pass off._ He was not surprised at her reaction; he expected no less from her courage. Sloan was not the type to have hysterics, even with good cause.

And it would give him time to deal with the aftermath. Disposal of Lewis’ body was an hour’s hard work, and while he found it distinctly odd to be dealing with the corpse of his former mentor, his main feeling was one of overwhelming relief. He had freed himself of Lewis’ control long since--with Sloan’s help--but now he no longer had to worry about the older man coming out of nowhere and harming her, or any of the others. It was done.

Tom took a quick look around, finding Lewis’ car not far away, but as he suspected, the _Homo dominant_ had acted alone. Lewis never had partners, only protégés. Then Tom went back inside to clean the carpet where Lewis had fallen. He was still impressed that Sloan’s shot had killed his former mentor so cleanly. Anything less than an exact hit, and Lewis would certainly have gotten off at least one shot at Tom.

 _So, what do we do next?_ Staying in the house was no longer an option. When Lewis failed to report in, an investigation would begin. Tom puzzled over just how Lewis had tracked them down _. Were we followed? Or did he really have some connection to me?_ It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. The new species denied emotional bonds in general, but mentors and trainees were, of necessity, close and there might be all kinds of knowledge on that score that Tom no longer remembered. He wondered sourly as he scrubbed whether he would ever regain what had been taken from him. Since they didn’t know how it had been done, at the moment, getting his memories back seemed unlikely.

* * *

When Sloan came out of the bedroom that afternoon, still enveloped in the bathrobe, she walked slowly down the shadowy hall instead of going out onto the deck. All that remained of the morning’s events was a slightly damp spot on the rug, which she skirted carefully. Sleep had made her memories more like some odd, vivid dream, but Sloan felt like she was carrying something delicately balanced. If she thought too hard about what had happened, the balance would tip.

Tom was reading in the living room, but he set aside the book and stood when she appeared. “How do you feel?” he asked, walking toward her.

Sloan folded her arms. “Weird,” she admitted, “but...I think I’m okay.” Briefly she wondered again what Tom had done with Lewis, but she did not ask.

Tom took her arms just above the elbows and searched her face, and whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. “Good.” He released her, and her stomach growled abruptly. “Lunch?”

Sloan blinked, surprised and a little dismayed at her appetite. “I guess I’d better. But--“ she held up a hand, determined not to feel like an invalid. “--only if you let me help.”

She managed to keep her memories balanced through the meal. Tom did not refer to the morning, and Sloan did not bring it up. But after they finished, Tom sat forward. “We have to leave tonight.”

“We do?” Sloan was startled at how relieved she felt at the thought. She really didn’t want to linger in the house, now that Lewis’ death was imprinted on it.

“Yes.” Tom stood up and began collecting plates. “Eventually someone will wonder why Lewis hasn’t checked in, and they’ll come looking for him. We have to be long gone by then.”

“Right.” She rose as well, and carried glasses to the sink. “When do you want to leave?”

“Just after sunset. Will you be all right if I take a nap?”

Slightly exasperated, Sloan replied with some asperity that she’d be fine, and that she could finish the dishes herself. She couldn’t see Tom’s face as he walked away, but she had the sudden feeling that he was smiling.

Sloan avoided thought by restoring the kitchen to the pristine condition in which they’d found it, then realized that she hadn’t gotten dressed. Frowning down at her robe, she decided that clothes could wait until Tom was awake again--she didn’t want to disturb him by going into the bedroom.

So she went out onto the deck and sat on the swing with a book, but she didn’t open it. Her carefully balanced thoughts were beginning to weigh on her mind.

 _I killed somebody. Okay, it was Lewis, and if anybody needed killing it was him, but_ I _did it._

The idea did not bring the revulsion it had that morning, and she analyzed her reactions as best she could. _Well, it was justified--he would have killed Tom, and then he would have killed me._ There was no doubt about that. She’d seen Lewis sharpen his aim at Tom just before he’d noticed her, and she’d known that he would offer no last-minute reprieve this time. When she thought about it, she was amazed that she had, in fact, killed Lewis instead of just wounding him. _Beginner’s luck, I suppose. It would have been hard to miss completely at that range, though._

Rocking gently, Sloan pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. _I’m a scientist, an anthropologist. I’m supposed to find out about life, not take it_. That sounded hollow, though _._

 _He would have killed Tom. He was about to kill Tom._ That was the truth of it. She’d had to choose, Tom or Lewis. And while she hadn’t meant to kill Lewis, just stop him, to her mind the gun had meant death when she’d picked it up.

 _If I had to do it again..._ She stopped rocking, a little shocked _. I’d do the same thing. Not try to knock him out or something?_

Apparently not. _Now he’s gone. He can’t come back, he can’t hurt me or Tom or anybody else._

She wondered abruptly what Ed would say when she told him she had shot Lewis. And smiled, feeling as though she hadn’t smiled in weeks. She could all but hear him. “ _About time somebody did_.”

However, settling the matter in her mind did not settle Sloan’s emotions. Too restless to read, she went back inside and made sandwiches to take with them when they left. Then, for lack of anything better to do, she started a batch of cookies. _Cooking as therapy?_ the back of her mind commented, but she ignored it. Action was better than brooding, or sitting and replaying Lewis’ death in her mind. And baking cookies meant she would have to clean the kitchen again.

Still, the hours before sunset seemed to stretch on and on. The shadows were long when she found herself with nothing more to do. Tom had no doubt set his internal alarm, but she didn’t know when he would wake, and being virtually alone in the house was making her more and more nervous. Finally she gave up.

Tom stirred when she climbed into bed beside him, reaching out to gather her against his side without really waking. It was only because his subconscious recognized her as “safe” that he didn’t wake entirely, she knew, but even asleep he was great comfort. She snuggled closer, rubbing her face against his T-shirt and breathing in his familiar spicy scent. She wasn’t sleepy, but right here was the best place to be.

There was no discernible change in him, but about an hour later she raised her head to find him watching her, eyes darkened with sleep. Sloan thought about explaining why she was there, then realized it probably wasn’t necessary. He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on her lips; the simple touch seemed to unlock something inside her, and Sloan was caught in a rush of emotion and desire. She kissed him back, more deeply, surprised at her urgency. _Another reaction,_ the back of her mind observed, and she hissed mentally at it to shut up. Now was not the time for analysis.

Then Tom slipped the robe off her shoulders, and she stopped thinking entirely.

They left the house with more than they had brought to it. Sloan felt a little guilty at helping herself to the clothes and toiletries, until she reminded herself that Walter, or his agents, put them there to be used. Still, it didn’t take long to pack the car, and Sloan gave a last look around as the garage door hummed shut. It was full dark, and she was able to look up and see stars thick above the outline of roof and trees. The spot inside where Lewis had fallen was burned indelibly into her mind, and yet...

“It’s still lovely,” she said, and Tom slipped his arms around her from behind, folding her into a warm embrace.

“Yes. It is,” he agreed quietly.

They drove most of the night, putting distance between themselves and Lewis’ last known location. Tom wanted them long gone before anyone came looking for his former mentor.

“Do you think we’re being followed?” Sloan asked when they stopped for gas, and he kept looking around.

“I’m not sure,” Tom answered, obscurely troubled. “Lewis may have had a backup of some kind, a perimeter watcher.”

Sloan frowned, raising her arms over her head in a joint-popping stretch. “I thought you said he always worked alone.”

“He did.” Tom disengaged the fuel hose from the car and replaced it on the pump. “But after he failed with us, someone may have been assigned to keep an eye on him.”

“So what do we do?” Sloan opened her car door.

“We go somewhere where we’ll blend in.” Tom didn’t smile, but his expression was one of subtle satisfaction. “Tahoe.”

* * *

Sloan was impressed. Once Tom had a plan in mind, he carried it out with precision--and style. An hour away from Tahoe he handed Sloan a hat to cover her hair, then rented a luxury car at the biggest dealer he could find. They transferred their luggage into the new car and left Ray’s battered vehicle behind, though not without a pang on Sloan’s part. But she decided in the end that Ray would probably want to buy a new one anyway, rather than try to have the numerous bullet holes repaired.

Then they found the local mall. Sloan had to laugh when she heard what Tom had in mind, but he was serious, and she gave in without protest. And was startled when the normally reserved, quiet man by her side suddenly became expansive, loud, and just the slightest bit obnoxious.  The transformation was astounding, and Sloan realized that she'd all but forgotten Tom's chameleon skills--the ability to take up a role and make all observers believe it to be reality. 

"Trust me, darlin'," he said in a drawling Texas accent, patting Sloan's arm with one hand and waving aside a saleslady's offering with the other.  "We're goin' to Tahoe in high style."  He winked at the woman, who struggled to bury her distaste under her professional sales veneer, and Sloan was torn between giggles and admiration.  By taking on the facade of a vulgar, pushy millionaire, Tom made Sloan into a cipher and himself into a very memorable character--but memorable for all the wrong reasons.  Anyone looking for the two of us won't connect us with the people we're pretending to be, Sloan thought, and made sure to appear as vapid as possible herself. 

A few hours later, a glamorous redhead in an expensive and daring gown swept into one of Tahoe’s luxury hotel-casinos, on the arm of a darkly handsome gentleman who looked born to wear evening dress. Sloan had to fight giggles at the thought of how they must appear. _I’ve heard of hiding in plain sight, but this is ridiculous!_

Tom insisted, however, that it was the safest thing to do, short of finding another safe house. “They won’t expect us to be so obvious, if they manage to track us this far,” he explained quietly as they waited for the bellhop. “And there are always people around here, day and night. The sort of silent operations they prefer will be difficult, if not impossible.”

Sloan opened her mouth to ask about those silent operations, then shut it again. _I don’t think I want to know._ Her mouth opened again, this time involuntarily, when the bellhop let them into their hotel room. Tom handed the woman her tip, then shut the door, a small smile playing over his face at her expression. “Does it suit?” he asked.

“It’s amazing!” Sloan made a slow turn, taking in the huge bed, the deep carpet, the rich furniture. “That desk is probably worth more than my whole apartment.”

Tom laughed a little. “Probably.” He set down the keycard and walked over to the huge window. The sun was high over the lake below, and bands of color striped through the water as the lake grew deeper further out. “We need some more sleep, and I need to call Walter’s voice mail. We should meet the others here.”

Sloan nodded, her throat suddenly tight with yearning at the thought of seeing her friends again. “You’re right. Are you hungry?”

Tom shrugged, and the cloth of his perfectly-cut jacket slid over his shoulders. “Eating’s a good idea. You decide what you want; I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Sloan asked, slightly alarmed.

Tom tucked one of the room’s keycards into his pocket. “Out to find a pay phone. I’d rather not make the call from the room.”

“Oh. Okay.” Sloan felt a little foolish, but the whole business had her on edge. They were playing a dangerous game, Tom’s assurances to the contrary, and Lewis’ sudden appearance at their mountain hideaway had not helped her nerves.

Tom paced across the carpet, his steps silent, and cupped her face in his hands. “We’ll get through this, Sloan,” he said quietly, but with that thread of assurance she’d come to recognize, and his gaze was intent on hers. She managed a smile, and he pressed his lips to her forehead before letting her go. “Back in a minute,” he repeated, and was gone.

It was a little more than a minute, but Sloan put the time to good use. Kicking off her shoes, she placed an order to room service and began exploring the suite. Besides the picture window, it included an enormous TV, a fully-stocked bar, and a bathroom the likes of which Sloan had never seen. _I wonder if Tom can swim?_ popped into her head, and she grinned. _Of course he can._ And she began twisting taps.

Tom came back to the room to find the curtains shut, a substantial meal laid out on the table, and Sloan struggling with the zipper in the back of her dress. She craned her neck to look at him appealingly. “Could you give me a hand with this?”

* * *

 

“Really? You’ve never taken a bath before then?” Sloan laughed a little incredulously and picked up the soap.

“Not that I can remember,” Tom admitted behind her. He was in one of his very rare playful moods, and Sloan was taking full advantage.

“It was a pleasantly new experience,” Tom went on, reaching around and taking the soap from her. “And several possibilities occurred to me at the time...including this one.” He blew gently on the nape of her neck to get a tendril of hair out of the way, making her shiver, and began washing her back.

“I’ll bet,” Sloan said facetiously. His hands were stroking the tension from her shoulders and she sighed in pleasure.

Tom chuckled. “Haven’t you done this before?”

“Not with anybody else. It is more fun than the regular kind.” She sloshed more water over her knees, which were poking up from the foam. The bubble-bath had been his idea.

“I should hope so,” Tom said wryly. He wrung out a washcloth and began rinsing her skin. “Answer a question?”

“Anything,” Sloan said, turning a little to look back at him.

“What was the duck for?”

“The duck...?” Sloan gaped at him for a moment before she understood what he was talking about. “Oh! Um...well, have you ever seen ‘Sesame Street’?”

* * *

It took two days for the rest of the fugitives to straggle in. Ray and Walter arrived first, Ray sliding into place at the casino table where Sloan was doing moderately well at blackjack. It took all her willpower not to leap up and hug him, but she confined herself to a cool smile and, eventually, a planned flirtation that ended up with the redhead’s departure with the older man.

“This is silly,” she murmured to Ray as they made their way out of the room.

Ray’s chuckle rumbled. “Maybe so, but it might just do the trick. I’m running from the government, and you’re running from the new species. Hopefully, they haven’t started sharing information yet.”

Sloan snorted. “If only it were that simple.” But he had made her smile, as he’d intended.

“Where’s Tom?” he asked, drawing her arm through his.

“Right here,” said a quiet voice behind them, making Ray jump. Tom stepped around them; he only glanced at Sloan’s hand on Ray’s arm, but something about him made Ray release her. “Where’s Walter?”

“If I know him, he’s beating some poor hapless souls at poker,” Sloan said lightly.

“Got it in one,” Ray said, grinning. “Don’t you two look nice?”

Sloan blushed; Tom only cocked his head with his usual inscrutable expression. Ray himself was wearing a suit, but nothing to match the elegance of the others. The ex-detective glanced at his watch. “He’s supposed to meet us in your room in about twenty minutes. Shall we go?”

Ray was answering Sloan’s questions about his and Walter’s escape when Tom opened the door at Walter’s knock. Sloan took one look at the scientist and burst out laughing. Walter shot her a half-humorous glare and seated himself in a chair with great dignity, doing his best to ignore Ray’s chuckle and blinking in surprise at the grin that Tom was wearing.

“ _Where_ did you get that shirt?” Sloan finally gasped, sagging onto the bed. “It looks like...like...”

Walter glanced down at the luridly hued, flower-dappled Hawaiian shirt. “There’s no need to malign my taste in leisure wear,” he said primly, smirking.

“If that’s your taste, I’ll eat my own shirt,” Ray commented dryly.

Walter shrugged, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Well, you must admit it makes excellent camouflage.”

Sloan agreed. The immaculate scientist was gone; in his place sat the epitome of the dull, middle-class, middle-aged tourist. The shirt was set off by shorts; Walter had deliberately added socks and sandals, and he wore a battered khaki fishing cap as well. A week without a trim had left his beard scruffy.

“So when are Ed and Mark arriving?” he asked, settling into business.

Tom sat down beside Sloan. “Tomorrow evening. Mark said to wait for them here, rather than meeting them outside.” He took her hand. “I assume that he has some kind of camouflage in mind.”

Walter nodded. “Where are you guys staying?” Sloan asked.

Ray gave her the name of a much cheaper hotel on the California side of the town. “We’re sharing a room; we figured it’s a lot harder to make us disappear if we’re together.”

“What have you been doing for the last few weeks?” Sloan asked curiously, and Ray groaned.

“I’ve had a better time on stakeouts,” he complained. “If I see the inside of one more cheap motel room...” He gestured at Walter, who merely snorted. “This man doesn’t even like _baseball_.”

* * *

Sloan was alone in the room the next afternoon when someone knocked on the door. She peered cautiously out the peephole, then hastily unlocked the door and swung it open so fast that the repairman on the other side stepped back a pace. Then he stepped back another as Sloan launched herself into his arms.

“Hey,” Ed said, laughing as he hugged his friend. “It’s only been a few weeks, Sloan!”

The handsome, austere man dressed in work coveralls similar to Ed’s glanced about uneasily and herded the two scientists into the room, shutting the door carefully after them.

Sloan sniffed back tears and loosened her grip enough to look up at Ed. “It’s been forever, and you know it.”

Ed’s expression softened, and he pulled her close again in another hug. “Yeah, I know.”

Mark locked the door and took up station near it, giving the pair one dry glance before setting down the toolbag he carried.

Finally Sloan and Ed separated. Sloan tugged the taller man over to the bed and sat down next to him. “I’m so glad to see you. Both of you,” she added, glancing over at Mark, who nodded rather hesitantly.

Ed cocked a brow at her. “What happened to you? You look totally stressed out.”

Tears filled Sloan’s eyes again at the memory of the last few days. “Lewis found us.”

Both men straightened at that. “What happened?” Mark demanded, overriding Ed’s urgent “Are you okay?”

“He’s dead.” Sloan swallowed hard. “Ed, I...I shot him.”

Ed stared at her for a long moment, then reached out to gather her into his arms again. “Good for you,” he murmured.

Sloan let out a half-laugh, half-sob against Ed’s chest. “That’s what Tom said.”

Ed rocked her gently. It was such a relief to tell him, Sloan thought, to have his understanding as well as Tom’s. Tom had become the heart of her, but Ed was her balance.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sloan accepting the comfort that Ed offered without words or judgment. Then she glanced up to meet Mark’s closed gaze.

“He broke into the safe house and was going to kill Tom.” She straightened, remaining in the circle of Ed’s arm, and wiped moisture from her face. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

Mark raised a brow, but before he could say anything the lock clicked, and he spun toward the door.

It opened, and Tom slipped inside. His gaze, weighted with concern, went unerringly to Sloan, and for a moment a peculiar tension hummed in the air. Then he shut the door. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “Walter and Ray should be back soon.”

Tom had heard Sloan through the door, so he knew what she was telling Ed about, and he could easily sense her turbulent emotions at the memory. Still, it was an unpleasant surprise to find Sloan in Ed’s arms. Tom considered Ed a friend second only to Sloan, and knew the other man was not a threat to their relationship, yet it still hurt to see Sloan seeking comfort from someone else. Tom understood her need for Ed’s normalcy--after all, Tom himself was not human--but it made him feel outside again, shut out of the circle of human warmth.

Then Sloan got up, and deliberately walked over and kissed him. The hurt dissolved in her warmth. He could feel her concern; somehow-- _human intuition?_ \--she had sensed his pain, and he could tell she wanted to reassure him. He sighed, relaxing, and gave her the tiniest smile.

Tom exchanged nods with Mark and walked over to shake hands with Ed, ignoring the taller man’s somewhat curious look. “You okay?” Ed asked.

“I’m fine,” Tom answered, knowing what Ed meant. “You?”

“We’re good,” Ed said, swinging his legs up onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard. “Bored maybe, but good.”

Someone knocked on the door again, and Mark looked through the peephole before opening it. Walter and Ray came in, and there were more handshakes before everyone settled into seats.

Walter, as usual, took charge. “So, what’s our next move?”

There was a long silence as everyone looked around. “Lay low,” Ed finally offered. “At least until we can figure out a new strategy.”

Ray turned a bit in his seat to look at Mark. “Could we meet up with your people?”

Mark looked faintly surprised. “You mean for protection?”

Ray shrugged. “Protection, collaboration, whatever comes to hand.”

“It’s a thought,” Mark said slowly. “I’m not sure...”

“Think about it,” Walter suggested. “What else could we do?”

Another silence ensued. Tom took a deep breath. “The convocation,” he said into the hush.

Everyone gave him quizzical looks, except for Mark, who sat up straight. “You?” he asked Tom.

Tom nodded. “It’s one way to do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Sloan asked impatiently.

Tom turned to her. “The gathering of our species, in October. When they’ll fight for the leadership.”

He kept his eyes on hers, knowing she would understand, and he watched the horror spread over her face.

“What, you want to blow it up or something?” Ed asked, confused.

“No.” Sloan’s voice was low and hard. “No, Tom. You can’t.”

“I have to.” Tom took her hands. “If I take the leadership, I’ll be able to dictate the policies. We would have peace, Sloan. Co-existence...”

Furious, Sloan tore away from him and sprang up to pace. “Tom, they’ll kill you! You aren’t one of them any more!”

Everyone but Mark was aware of the double meaning of her words. Walter frowned judiciously. “It would solve all our problems rather neatly...if Tom wins.”

Sloan whirled on him. “You think this is a good idea!”

Walter did not flinch. “I think it has some merit, yes.”

“If he doesn’t win, he’ll be dead,” Ray pointed out dryly. “And we’ll be no better off than we were. No offense,” he added to Tom.

Ed shook his head. “It’s insane, Tom. You know why.”

Tom folded his arms, summoning the intensity that had served him in other arguments. “It’s the best way. If I win, then both species will be safe.” He looked around at the others. “Does anyone have another idea?”

“Do you really think you have a reasonable chance?” Walter asked.

“Yes.” Tom did not let himself watch Sloan. “I think I can win.”

Ed leaned forward. “Tom. C’mon, man. This is dumb.”

“Then come up with a better idea,” Tom retorted. Ed hissed in frustration and sat back again.

Tom turned to Mark. “Can you help me?”

Mark propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and fitted his fingertips together. “Some of our people will be there, to observe,” he admitted. “Since we, too, have an interest in who leads the war faction.”

Tom risked a glance at Sloan, but she was now staring at the floor, arms wrapped around herself. “Once I get there I should be able to join the...competition. It’s getting there undetected that’s the problem.”

Mark closed his hands with a faint snap. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” Tom looked around at the troubled faces. After a moment, Ed took the hint.

“C’mon, guys, let’s go,” he said. “I need time to think up more objections.”

Rising, the men filed quietly from the room, leaving Tom alone with Sloan.

She stood by the window, staring blindly out at the brilliant lake. Her stance was stiff, projecting anger, but he could feel the sick fear underlying her outward appearance--the same terror that she had felt when he had been taken by the transformation fever.

“Sloan, you know I have to do this.”

Sloan did not turn. “No. I don’t.”

His mouth tightened, but he did not approach her, not yet. “It’s the most logical solution. Sloan, we’re out of options. October is only eight weeks away--even if we had a plan, there would scarcely be time to implement it.”

Sloan’s hand clenched on the curtain. “That doesn’t mean you have to throw your life away on some insane contest!”

“You’re right.” That startled her into turning. “I don’t have to. I choose to.”

Her eyes narrowed in fresh fury. “Tom, you’re not one of them anymore. What makes you think you can beat them?”

“I survived the worst the government could do to me, Sloan.” _And came back to you_ hovered unspoken in the air. She turned away again as he neared her, but did not pull away when he put his hands on her shoulders. “I can survive this. And win.”

“You don’t know that.” Her voice was cold, but he could tell she was near panic.

“No. I don’t.” Gently he turned her, making her look at him. “But I believe I can. Sloan, you believed in me so much that you gave me strength, even when I was locked in a cage. Can’t you believe in me now?”

She stared at him; then tears spilled over and she buried her face in his shoulder, her arms tight around him. “Tom,” she whispered. “Tom, I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

He held her close, rubbing his cheek in her hair, infinitely comforted that someone, that _she_ , cared whether he lived or died. “I don’t want to die,” he told her softly. “But I can’t think of a more worthy goal. Not just your safety, Sloan, but all humans, all people.”

She was silent a long moment before raising her head to look at him. “You think you can control them?”

“Remember the prophecy?” He gently pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. “The elder predicted that the winner would lead.”

“And you think you’re the ‘different’ one.”

“It fits,” he pointed out. “She said one of the two would be a link between the old world and the new. Who else could serve?”

Sloan sighed and hid her face again, but he sensed her anger and panic subsiding into pain--and a touch of humor. “I can’t stop you, can I?” she murmured, and he smiled a little and forbore to answer.


	4. Chapter 4

All the goodbyes had been said, all the best wishes and admonitions given, and now the two of them stood under a sky whose thick stars were all but washed out by the never-ceasing glare of Tahoe. “The sun will be up soon,” Sloan said, annoyed at the faint tremble in her voice. She was strong, she would be strong--

Then Tom took her hands in his, and she almost lost it anyway. She could barely make out his features in the shadows, though she knew that he could see her far better.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, and his gaze locked with hers even through the dimness.

 _You don’t know that,_ Sloan thought, but she did not voice it. The time for arguments was over.

“Do you remember when we were attacked in Mexico?” Tom asked.

Sloan blinked in surprise. “Of course I do.”

He breathed out, a whisper of laughter. “You were so stubborn. You would only agree to leave if I promised you that I would come back.”

Sloan swallowed at the memory. “You did come back.”

His hands tightened. “Sloan...that was the first time anyone asked that of me.”

She should have been confused by the statement, she thought, but she wasn’t. She’d guessed as much herself. It was the first time he knew anyone cared about him, worried about him, desired his presence. He had been so lonely, and he hadn’t even realized it....

_I don’t want to lose you again...._

Sloan swallowed against her tight throat, drew her hands from his, and curved them around the back of his neck. “Promise me you’ll come back,” she whispered.

“I will,” he said, and this time his voice was laced with certainty, rather than surprise. He cupped her face in his palms. “Sloan...”

“Just go,” she choked, trying not to break down. _I have to be strong for him._ He knew how she felt, but she refused to let him leave with a memory of her in tears.

He leaned forward and kissed her. The touch of his mouth was a promise in itself, but Sloan felt his pulse racing under her palms, and knew with sudden intuition that he was as frightened as she was.

He raised his head, and she ordered her arms to relax, her hands to let him go as he stepped away. Then he was gone, following the path Mark had taken, pausing only a moment to look back at Sloan before the darkness swallowed him up. A few seconds later she heard the grumble of an engine and the slamming of a car door.

She stood where she was for a long time, listening to the motor fade away into the distance, straining her ears long after it was gone.

* * *

 

Sloan wrestled with the lock for more than a minute before she realized that her front-door key no longer fit the lock. Or rather, that the lock no longer fit the key. She dropped her bags to the hallway floor and frowned, tired and confused. _This is the new key, right? So why..._

Then she thought back to the evening the three of them had fled her apartment, and the mysterious pursuers who had nearly caught them there...and followed that to its logical conclusion. _They broke my door down again?!_

She wanted, more than almost anything, to simply sit down and cry until she couldn’t move. Instead, she yanked her purse out of the small pile of luggage, turned on her heel, and went in search of the building manager. Forty-five minutes and a lecture later, she had a key that fit the lock, and a summer’s worth of mail.

Her apartment was a mess. The people who’d broken in had apparently searched the place; there was paper everywhere. Her plants were withered and dead, and Sloan was briefly grateful that she had cleaned out her refrigerator that spring. Dust dulled the surfaces of the counters and shelves.

But it smelled homey and familiar, and while Sloan knew from experience that a locked door was no true safety, she dropped her bags--again--and locked the door anyway.

She walked slowly through the living room, being careful where she stepped, and tried the phone. As she expected, it was dead. “Have to do something about that,” she murmured absently, and kicked off her shoes. She was tired down to her bones, and wanted a shower. She picked her way into the bedroom; her drawers were half-open, contents spilling over where someone had rummaged. But it didn’t seem to matter...cleaning up could wait until tomorrow.

Suddenly she felt too tired for even a shower. Stripping off her shirt and jeans, she dropped them into the mess on the floor and sat down on the rumpled bed. For a long moment she just held still, listening to the silence. Then she lay down, pulling the crumpled comforter up, and hooked one pillow close. A deep breath tasted of dust, clean cotton--and the last person to use the pillow. The tears finally spilled over. Sloan wept in the dimming light, wondering bitterly how on earth she had come to be crying alone for her missing beloved...again.

* * *

 

Tom and Mark bent over the map, holding it between them, and making the best of the meager light that was all the bus provided. Night was a solid wall outside the grimy windows. The vehicle rumbled slowly toward the Mexican border as the two men tried to work out the best way to reach Oaxaca.

“Straight in may be the best option,” Mark said finally, folding up the accordioned paper.

Tom sat back. “We have plenty of time.”

Mark stowed the map away and gave Tom a long look. “You really don’t have much of a chance, you know.”

Tom’s answering glance was tinged with exasperation. “I don’t have much of a choice. It was only a matter of time before we were found, and we were out of both ideas and places to hide.”

Mark shook his head thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you come to us?” he asked finally, and it was obvious that he meant Tom alone. “We could have protected you.”

“You’d trust a chameleon?” Tom asked pointedly, but Mark remained calm.

“Eventually.”

Tom stretched his legs a little in the confines of the seat. “I didn’t remember that you existed,” he said quietly. “I didn’t even hear about you until after I got away from the lab.”

Mark was silent again, letting a couple of miles pass before he spoke. “But why humans? Why ask them for help?”

“I didn’t _ask_ them,” Tom said. He frowned a little.

“But you stayed with them.” It was a question.

“No one I could remember would have accepted me. The humans did.” Tom stared at the back of the seat ahead of him, distantly aware of the various sleeping _Homo sapiens_ surrounding them.

“Dr. Parker did.”

Tom’s gaze slid sideways to the other man. “Yes. She did.” And the firmness in his voice seemed to discourage further comment. Mark closed his eyes and leaned back to sleep.

Tom relaxed as best he could in the cramped seat. Remembering.

_One memory, captured as in crystal: Sloan standing thigh-deep in the clear blue water of Lake Tahoe, hair flaming in the westering sun, laughing and waving at him as he stood on the shore and watched her. A moment later she would coax him into taking off his shoes and joining her, and she would grab his hand and tug him further out. But it was the picture of her beckoning to him that he fixed in his mind, keeping it for when he would need it._

He listened to the engine as it widened the distance between them.

* * *

 

“So that’s _it_?” Ed asked, incredulous. “We can just go back like nothing happened?”

Walter was at his most unreadable. “Whitney University has decided, given the...dissolution...of the agency that had commandeered its genetics lab, to allow its researchers to return, and appears unwilling to say much about past events.” The older man unbent enough to smile grimly. “I think the administration is embarrassed, Ed. Do be gracious enough to accept the decision.”

Ed snorted and went back to sorting through the handful of papers he held. Walter looked over to Sloan, who was half-heartedly trying to put her apartment back together with Ed’s help.

“I don’t think you realize how much they value us,” he said, speaking generally but looking at Sloan. “You’re both brilliant researchers, and the University wants to make use of that. And of my own talents.”

Sloan gave Walter an absent smile and folded another shirt. Ed sighed. “Okay, so we go back and pick up where we left off. Except we did that already, and it’s a dead end.”

“The serum was only a sideline project from the University’s point of view,” Walter pointed out. “There are any number of things we can work on.” His eyes met Ed’s and flicked toward the oblivious Sloan. Ed’s face slid from annoyance to grudging understanding.

“Well, it’ll sure be good to get back to doing something again,” Ed admitted. “When will Ray be back?”

“He said he’d only be a couple of weeks,” Sloan replied, reaching for a sweater. “But it’s his family. It’ll probably be a month at least.”

“That still leaves plenty of time...” Ed trailed off as Sloan’s shoulders stiffened, and he grimaced and looked away. It had been a week since Mark and Tom had left them to head for Oaxaca,, and Sloan still hadn’t shaken off her funk. The two men were worried about her, but so far she wasn’t talking.

“Mark was right about the surveillance, though,” Walter said, breaking into Ed’s thoughts. “The new species seems too busy focusing on the convocation to worry about us. It should be safe enough at the lab.”

“And here?” Sloan asked dryly, gesturing at her living room. “I don’t want to have to do this again, Walter.”

The big man sighed and scooped a cushion off the floor, placing it on the couch beside him. “No guarantees,” he replied.

* * *

 

After a few exhausting days of getting the lab returned to a condition that Dr. Attwood deemed acceptable, they returned to their long-interrupted research. Some of it had to do with the new species, some of it with University business. Ed returned to his surfing, and Walter to grumbling about the grad students; Sloan biked to and from work and watched the trees change color with the mild autumn.

 _How can I explain it to them?_ she thought, cycling slowly in the afternoon light. _I miss Tom so much...it’s like he took part of me with him when he left. I worry and worry about how he’s doing. And the worst part of it is--_ she swerved around a branch in the road-- _if he doesn’t win the competition, I may never see him again--and I won’t even know what happened._

It had taken all her courage to let Tom go. She knew as well as he did that his idea was the only solution they had, unpalatable as it might be, but he would not even be able to send her so much as a postcard, lest he betray their plans. So he vanished into silence, leaving Sloan and the others to go on with life as though they’d never met him.

 _Except that everything’s changed. Me most of all._ Sloan stopped at an intersection, sniffing at the cool air. _Ed still gives me funny looks from time to time, and I know he’s worried. But there’s nothing I can do about it until I...know...one way or the other._

The light changed, and she pushed down on the pedals, remembering back. A school full of children with invisible destruction eating away at their cells; Ed had found a way to stop the nanites, and Walter had had mild electrical shocks administered to the kids under the guise of a medical test, but still nearly a third of the children had died. The school had been shut down while the authorities searched in vain for a cause, and Sloan had added the small, ghostly forms to her nightmares.

One young man who had asked Tom for help, and in turn helped them find Ed and stop a holocaust. One angry, alien child who had chosen to follow his father’s way.

Sloan shivered and pedaled harder. If she and Tom were to have a child, would it turn cold and deadly as Kevin had? _You don’t even know if you can have children with Tom,_ she reminded herself. _He’s a hybrid now, and that could mean we’re genetically incompatible._ But the thought didn’t stop her yearning.

* * *

 

Tom woke on a sigh. The pain inside him was not all his own. He’d dreamed of Sloan again; waking alone was one of the loneliest things he’d ever done, and only the knowledge that she was waiting for him offered any consolation.

He sat up carefully, trying not to knock his head on the rock overhang above him, and looked around. His sleeping bag and gear were stowed under a small stone shelf that was just deep enough to put him in shadow as the sun cleared the horizon. Automatically he extended his senses, and above him and about a meter behind was the increasingly familiar muted aura that was Mark.

Tom wriggled out of his sleeping bag and crawled out onto the desert floor. Standing up, he stretched thoroughly; Mark came over to the edge of the rock on which he was keeping watch and under which Tom had slept. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Mark vanished. Tom reached back under the ledge, snagged his bedroll, and bundled it up. “Anything?”

“Not a sound,” Mark said as he reappeared and passed Tom a steaming cup. “But I think we’ll run into the outer perimeter today.”

Tom nodded, and buried his nose in the fragrant wisps rising from the cup. The desert air was just short of frigid, but it would soon warm up to an appalling heat. By then, they would be well on their way.

The two men made short work of breakfast and resumed their trek across the desert. They had passed the U.S. border many miles ago, and would soon come within closing distance of Oaxaca. The convocation began in three days.

As the men left their campsite, Tom thought back on the past two months. He and Mark had taken leave of the others almost at once; it would take them time to disappear, and more time to be sure that they had not been tracked. And then they had to get to Mexico. In the end, they had walked most of the way, to remain under the _Homo dominant_ radar. Mark’s status as an observer would hopefully get them into the Oaxaca complex itself, but before that they had to keep away from those who might know Tom--which was, unfortunately, everyone. Tom could not remember who among the new species would recognize him and reveal him as a fugitive.

Once there, Tom--a Chosen--would enter the competition for the leadership and would thereby become inviolate. The Chosen would fight, usually physically, frequently to the death. Subterfuge, ambush--there were few rules, though collaboration was forbidden. Each Chosen must survive, or fail, on his or her own. Those not Chosen could support and aid them, but they could not fight or interfere. The Chosen could also withdraw from the competition at any point, but they could not return. Tom wondered a bit at the framework of near-ritual that had risen up around an event predicted in vague terms a half-century before. But it was his opportunity, and he was determined not to waste it. Sloan’s life, Ed’s, Ray’s and Walter’s, and all the countless other humans, might depend on him.

Despite the crunchy footing, their steps across the barren desert valley were all but silent. The two of them had found some quiet harmony over the past weeks, Mark’s wariness and dislike of chameleons slowly changing into an unstated camaraderie. Tom, grateful for the other man’s help, had accepted the change without comment. He knew Mark was helping him because, at the moment, Tom represented the best hope the peace faction had for change--slight though the hope might be.

 _What am I_ _doing?_ Tom wondered for the thousandth time, as the sun strengthened and another mile fell behind them. The idea was insane, really. Pitting himself, one man, against an unknown number of hostile, powerful opponents? Assuming he could get as far as entering the contest. And Tom wasn’t even a true _Homo dominant_ any more. His hybrid state--unique, as far as any of them knew--could have other changes besides the emotional ones. Changes that could betray him when he did not expect it.

But he couldn’t see any other choice. The serum was a dead-end idea, at least at the present; the federal government could not move quickly enough, even if they could somehow convince it of the threat. His plan was the only reasonable option. So he had firmed his resolve and marched off toward Oaxaca with Mark to guide and hide him, leaving behind his friends and the hopes he’d just begun to dare to have.

 _And Sloan..._ The memory of her tear-tracked face still tore at him, the way she’d tried to hide her fear from him when they’d said goodbye...

Mark slowed a bit, glancing up and around to judge their position. “We should cross the perimeter soon,” he said abruptly.

Tom nodded, settling his hat more firmly on his head. “All the ceremony seems a little much.”

Mark shrugged and readjusted his pack. “Sometimes I think we’re not as different from humans as we like to think.”

He picked up the pace again. Crossing the desert in full daylight, at speed, would have been impossible for humans, but the _Homo dominants’_ ability to control their bodies, and their greater endurance, made it a hard but not unbearable trip.

“It’s kind of like the World Series,” Tom said thoughtfully. He had asked Ray for a further explanation of baseball and had nearly regretted it. “Eliminations.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something else,” Mark said unexpectedly. “I saw a movie with a similar theme when Dr. Tate and I went to ground at the convention.”

Tom raised a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah. Have you ever seen a film called ‘Highlander’?”

* * *

 

The sun was getting low when Tom and Mark neared the beginning of the mountains and came to the first guard. They sensed him at about the same moment, but did no more than exchange glances and keep going. This would be the first test of Mark’s real credentials and Tom’s fake ones.

The stocky man with the submachine gun was waiting near a small shelter, watching them as they approached. Tom knew there were two others hidden out of sight in the rocks, but he did not acknowledge their presence. Either he and his companion would get through, or they would be discovered. If they were stopped, there was little chance that they would be able to take out all three guards without getting themselves killed, but they hadn’t much of a choice. Sneaking in would be a greater risk.

The guard watched them carefully as they approached. Tom fished out the papers Mark had given him, being careful to keep his movements slow, and Mark pulled out his own identification. The guard flipped through the papers, and gave Tom a long, slightly puzzled stare. Tom did not let himself react by so much as a deep breath. The changes the serum had made seemed to have altered him in a way that other _Homo dominants_ could detect, but so far not even Mark had guessed how he had changed.

Then the man handed back the papers. “Go ahead,” he said. His voice was laced with contempt, and Tom waited until they were well out of earshot to ask Mark why.

The austere man hitched his pack a bit higher on his shoulders. “We of the peace faction are considered one step away from traitors,” he said grimly. “The others tolerate us, but they don’t like us.”

Tom nodded.

They made camp that night among the high hills, close enough to the valley to see the light that the convocation cast against the sky. Tom sat on a boulder after supper, watching the stars and thinking of Sloan, and what he would face during the next few days.

Mark unfolded his sleeping roll. “Are you going to bed?”

“I have something I need to tell you,” Tom said quietly.

The faint, icy light of the stars was all Tom needed to see Mark’s face go still. “What is it?” the other man asked warily.

Tom swallowed. This was a secret that was dangerous to tell, but it was something Mark had to know. “I’m not entirely a _Homo dominant_ any more,” he said.

There was a long pause. “What?” Mark finally asked, sounding confused.

Tom sighed. “It was an experiment. Along the lines of the tick secretions. To see if they could turn us into them, rather than the other way around.”

Mark’s breath hissed between his teeth. “They _dared_ ,” he said fiercely. “I admire your restraint. I would have burned the place to the ground in my wake.”

“It wasn’t...practical,” Tom replied, grateful that Mark had assumed the experiment had taken place while Tom was a prisoner. “Are you still willing to support me?”

The silence was longer this time as Mark stared at Tom. “So that’s what they meant,” he said at last. “’You aren’t one of them anymore’.”

“Something like that,” Tom said dryly.

“And you fit the prophecy. ‘A link between the old and the new’.” He inclined his head, a formal gesture. “I will support you.”

* * *

 

Tom and Mark lay flat on their bellies, peering over a ledge and into the valley where the village had once stood. The buildings were buried under the valley floor, but in their places were thousands of tents and temporary shelters. People swarmed around in ordered patterns, carrying out tasks in their customary, purposeful efficiency. Tom shook his head fractionally. _I’m surprised we got this far._

Mark’s credentials and air of authority had carried them into the convocation territory. The two were doing their best to remain as unnoticed as possible, given that Tom could not remember who could betray him. Tom had spent two days hidden in the rocks, resting, with Mark going in for supplies and information, but so far their luck had been startlingly good. Since Tom didn’t believe in luck, this just made him uneasy.

The competition had begun that morning, without ceremony, and already several pyres sent smoke clouding into the empty sky. Tom squirmed silently back from the ledge. “I’ve seen enough,” he whispered to Mark.

The two men made their way back to their equipment. “When do you want to go down?” Mark asked quietly.

“Not till tonight. There’s less chance of my being recognized in the dark before I can join in.” Tom’s jaw tightened at the thought of what he would have to do. While not every fight here would end in death, most would, and he was no longer inured to killing.

The other man nodded. “Try and get some sleep, then,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

Tom snorted inwardly at the thought of actually managing to sleep, but the advice was good, and he relaxed his body in the way he’d been taught, conserving energy for the fights.

When night fell with desert swiftness, the two made their way down the hills toward the camp. Small fires starred the darkness, these intended for cooking and warmth rather than the disposal of corpses. Here and there, scattered in the crowds, were men and women who wore backless shirts, or no tops at all. Each of them bore a tattoo on the right shoulder blade--the same tattoo that Tom had. Once they slipped past a small crowd that was watching two Chosen circle each other in a slow, deadly dance. Both of them--the slender man and the small, compact woman--already bore bruises.

Mark chose a spot on the edge of things, not too far away to observe, but not so close that they would be easily watchable. Mark went for firewood, while Tom set up the tent and then sat cross-legged in the sand, observing the slow change of the passerby.

And then one person turned in the fire-lit darkness, and Tom’s breath caught in his throat. _She’s dead!_

The woman wore a halter top, and as she moved, Tom could see the spray of dots that made up the tattoo. But the face, the lithe body, the walk were all Lisa’s. Unstable, fierce Lisa, whom he had seen Lewis kill.

 _“In just months, there’s going to be a lot of familiar faces.”_ The Lynch clone’s taunt rang in Tom’s head. _That must be it. She’s a clone, or a twin._ But he was shaken. How many other ghosts would take solid form here?

He could not put it off any longer, if he wanted to stay within the boundary of the rules. Slowly, Tom reached down and pulled off his shirt.

His first challenger arrived just past midnight. Sooner or later Tom would have to go out and make his own challenges, but he preferred to put that off as long as he could. Some others would have the same strategy, letting the first eliminations take place without expending their own energy, though their reasons were no doubt different from his. They were just calculating, making the choice they thought would help them to victory; he was, ironically, reluctant to kill. And...he had realized sometime in a cold desert night...he was afraid to die. He had so much to live for--the shining promise in Sloan’s eyes, the hope of peace--and he was no longer inured to giving up his life.

The man was probably in his late forties, and was much taller than Tom, though not much heavier. The struggle was brief and sharp, and Tom left the man with a broken kneecap that would put him out of the running. Tom himself got only a few bruises, and he watched in silence as two others helped the older man away. He had one advantage over many of the Chosen--he had a chameleon’s training. Many of them would be no match at all; and if they were sensible, he would not often have to kill.

Mark materialized at Tom’s side and offered him a cup of water. “That was impressive,” he commented.

Tom swallowed the water in a few gulps. “It’s only the beginning.”

* * *

 

Sloan stared into space. Somewhere beyond her unfocused gaze was a calendar, tacked on the wall of her office, looking innocuous. But last week she had flipped it over to October; now, far to the south, the Chosen were in the midst of their competition.

Finally she blinked and lifted her chin from her hand. Pushing aside the papers she was supposed to be working on, Sloan lifted the blotter on her desk and slid out the photo of Tom and her at the birthday party. It was the only picture she had of him. Sloan did not know why she kept it hidden, but she obeyed the obscure impulse.

Someone tapped on the doorframe behind her. Sloan swung her chair around to see Ed leaning in, one arm braced on the top of the frame. His eyes flicked from her face to the photo and back again, but the impatient disapproval she half-expected was not there. His eyes showed only loving concern. “You’re coming home with me for dinner,” he said without preamble.

Sloan felt a smile forming on her lips. “I am, am I?”

“Yup.” Ed’s answering grin crinkled his eyes. “Tom would never forgive me if I let you waste away to nothing while he was gone.”

Sloan rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Just what I need. A babysitter.”

Ed rapped on the frame. “So c’mon, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“Now?” Sloan sat up. “It’s only three-thirty.”

Ed arched a brow. “Are you getting any work done?”

Sloan had to laugh. She stuffed the photo into her bag and stood up.

Ed took her to the beach first, and they walked until long after sunset, talking of inconsequential things--lab experiments, interdepartmental politics, the intractability of apartment building managers. When they got back to Ed’s apartment, he ordered an enormous meal of Chinese food, and Sloan found her appetite for what seemed like the first time in weeks.

Ed sat back with his mug of tea while Sloan was still poking at the pork with her chopsticks. “Walter keeps talking about what to do if...” he trailed off uncomfortably.

“If Tom doesn’t come back,” Sloan finished for him. “Somebody has to think ahead. I just...” She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and set the carton down.

“Sorry,” Ed muttered. Sloan gave him a smile that only felt slightly painful.

“It’s okay. It makes sense.” She shook her head. “Some scientist I am. No objectivity.”

Her friend reached over and covered her hand with his. “This isn’t something you can be objective about, Sloan.”

She gripped his fingers for a moment. “It’s funny, you know, how your mind can keep generating ideas. I keep seeing this future, all bright and perfect, even though there’s no point in dreaming anything until we know...”

“Yeah?” Ed set his mug on the table. “What’s it include? A Nobel?”

“Oh, that too,” she said, answering his grin. “I don’t know. A real house. Peace. Kids. That kind of thing.”

Ed leaned back in his chair, looking sardonic. "Oh, come on, Sloan. Kids? You know that's not possible. Tom’s a hybrid now, and hybrids are sterile."

Sloan breathed out, frustrated; then a slow smile crossed her face as a memory surfaced. She propped her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. "Ed, do you remember when Lewis took Tom, and we were stuck in the lab working on James?"

Ed gave her a slightly puzzled look. "Sure. There was a thunderstorm that night."

Sloan's smile widened as she regarded him. "Do you remember the argument we had about Tom?"

"Several arguments, if I remember right," Ed admitted. "Which one?"

"The one where I told you that Tom and I were getting close..." She paused for his nod, then continued, "...and you told me he wasn't human, and he never would be."

Ed's slightly impatient expression slid towards confusion; then his eyes widened.

"He was human, for a little while," Sloan finished triumphantly. "And you did it to him yourself."

Ed shook his head. "Got me."

Sloan's smile vanished as she regarded him intently. "Don't tell me it's not possible, Ed," she said quietly. "We've already done the impossible.”

They both jumped at a sudden bang. Sloan turned in her chair as Ed’s front door flew open and slammed against the wall. People poured through the opening. Ed jerked halfway forward, but before he could stand up, they were surrounded by three men and two women, all dressed in dark, nondescript clothing. Sloan felt the cold touch of a gun muzzle as someone pressed it against her neck, and fear and adrenaline chilled her from the inside out.

“Who are you?” Ed demanded, eyes blazing. His fists were clenched, and Sloan hoped that good sense would overcome testosterone. They were well-caught.

“Doctor Parker is coming with us,” one burly man said, ignoring the question. Sloan looked up at the hard, set faces around them, and her fear swelled as she realized that these people were _Homo dominants_.

“Not without me, she’s not,” said Ed.

“Ed!” Sloan protested, and he looked over at her, face set.

“Not without me,” he repeated. Sloan swallowed against a surge of affection and annoyance at his stubbornness.

The invaders exchanged unreadable glances, but it appeared that Ed’s determination was effective. The scientists were pulled roughly to their feet. Sloan had the irreverent thought, as they were hurried out of Ed’s apartment, that at least it wasn’t her door that had been broken open this time, but her mordant humor was quickly lost in apprehension.

Ed and Sloan found themselves in the back of a windowless van. Their captors put handcuffs on them, but left their hands in front of them, and while the two who bundled the captives in were brusque, they were not cruel. And the scientists were left alone in the back when the doors were shut.

Sloan braced herself as the vehicle lurched into motion, and looked across at Ed. “What do you think this is all about?”

Ed shrugged. “No idea. At least nobody shot me full of sedative this time.”

“If they were going to kill us, they would have done it already,” Sloan theorized hopefully. “They must have a reason to keep us alive.”

“To keep _you_ alive,” Ed replied grimly. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Sloan bit her lip. “I seem to have some value to them,” she said, struggling for courage. “If they want me to cooperate they’ll have to treat you well.”

Ed gave her a cockeyed look. “Wishing I’d stayed behind?”

Sloan smiled tremulously. “They might have killed you. And for my sake, Ed, I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

 

Tom grunted as a fist slammed into his side. Twisting, he grabbed his opponent’s arm and heaved, and the woman flew over his head and landed on her back in the sand. In an instant she bounced to her feet and sprang at him. The fierce sun glittered on the sweat and sand that coated them both, and Tom narrowed his eyes against the glare as he braced himself for her rush. Blood ran down his neck from a gouge in his scalp, and one of the woman’s eyes was swollen half-shut. His blood would clot within moments, and her swelling would go down in an hour’s time--if either of them lived that long. Tom had heard the tearing of muscle and ligament when he’d thrown the woman, yet the injury had scarcely hindered her. This one would not give up.

He had to make a choice, and he decided even as he swept the woman’s legs out from under her. She fell; he caught her, dropped to one knee, and broke her back across his bent leg. The ugly crunch of her spine was barely audible over the rumbling mutter of the enormous camp.

Tom pushed the limp body away and sat back on his heels, breathing hard. Around him, observers exchanged comments, and many drifted away to watch other bouts. Two waited for him to stand up so they could remove the corpse.

Tom scrubbed at the trickle on his neck and straightened. He didn’t feel sick, exactly, but... _Such a waste_. He was committed to the competition, but he found he hated the destruction. He might not like the new species’ plans, but he didn’t want to see the people destroyed.

Mark, who had been watching with the rest, handed him a damp towel. “Did you talk to your people?” Tom asked, wiping away sand and blood.

“Yes.” Mark’s face gave away nothing, but Tom could sense that he was disturbed. “They don’t approve of what I’m doing. I was supposed to be just an observer.”

Tom lowered the towel and tilted his head. “Do you want to stop?”

Mark returned Tom’s gaze. “No. I’ll see it through. There are enough of them here that they don’t need me.”

Tom nodded slowly. Then he dropped the towel and spun as a shout reached his ears. Mark had just enough time to back out of the way as the new challenger ran at Tom.

* * *

 

Ray knew something was wrong. He could feel it, a growing tension in his shoulders, as the plane began its descent. He shrugged mentally. He’d had a good long break, longer than he’d let himself hope, and his family was fine. Now it was time to get back to saving the world.

A grim smile crossed his face at the tenor of his thoughts, but in a sense it was true. Walter had asked him to stay down on the island for longer than he’d planned, to make it seem as though he were out of the game. But the convocation had begun, and Dr. Attwood apparently thought it was time to gather his forces.

However, Ray had not expected to see Walter himself waiting in the airport. “Shouldn’t you have one of those cardboard signs?” Ray asked, strolling up to the scientist.

Walter snorted genially. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring balloons. However, your timing is impeccable.”

“So, what’s the matter?” Ray fell into step beside the other man.

Walter grimaced, eyes glittering behind his glasses. “We have a problem.”

He filled Ray in on the drive to Ed’s apartment. When they got there, nothing was out of place except the broken door, but Ed was clearly gone--and Sloan with him, to judge from her purse sitting forlornly on a chair.

Ray straightened from his examination of the doorframe. “Must have been the new species,” he commented laconically.

Walter gazed at the cartons on the table. “How long have they been gone, do you think?”

Ray pulled the receipt from the paper bag the food had come in. “Looks like no more than twelve hours. They ordered dinner at eight-forty, it says here, and had enough time to eat it, but they didn’t clean up. So that puts the abduction at about ten p.m. or so.” He tossed the paper down on the table. “But where were they taken?”

“Impossible to tell.” Walter took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “But I’d bet on Oaxaca.”

Ray shot him an incredulous look. “Mexico? Why?”

Walter put his glasses back on, eyes gleaming. “My guess would be that Tom is doing well...and that somebody wants a hold on him.”

Ray blew out his breath. “Well. We’d better get down there, then.”

* * *

 

“I know who you are.”

Tom turned to face the speaker, and nearly flinched in shock. The man had a collared shirt on, so he was not a Chosen, but his face was as familiar as Tom’s own. Lewis’ features stared back at him from a clean-shaven face crowned with ruthlessly clipped white hair.

“Lewis spoke of you often. Tom, his greatest student,” the man went on conversationally. “Until you betrayed him.”

Tom managed to recover his calm. “I didn’t betray anybody,” he returned evenly.

“Not even when you murdered Lewis?” the older man said, his eyes glittering. “Did you think we didn’t know?”

“I didn’t murder Lewis,” Tom said with perfect truth.

The man’s face tightened in contempt. “You had better die in a challenge,” he said harshly. “Because if you fall out of the running, I will kill you myself.”

Tom watched the man stalk away, and wondered wearily if he was Lewis’ clone or his brother. And whether he would have to face the image of his former mentor in a fight.

* * *

 

The plane had been in the air for hours, but there were no windows where Ed and Sloan were seated, and they still had no idea where they were going. Their captors had loaded them onto the cargo plane, still cuffed, and four of them had boarded as well. But the three men and one woman silently withdrew to the front of the plane and left Sloan and Ed to sit alone. The two scientists were able to hold a more-or-less private conversation, masked by the muffled roar of the engines.

Sloan shook her wrists to make the chain jingle. “I think I know where we’re headed.”

Ed met her eyes soberly. “So do I.”

“Well, I did want a vacation.” But her attempt at humor fell flat. They were silent for a bit.

“One thing’s for sure,” Ed said finally. “None of your other boyfriends were ever this much trouble.”

Sloan snickered, then burst out laughing, and Ed started to chuckle. “Not even that twit in high school,” she agreed.

“Hey, why didn’t you marry what’s-his-name, the guy you were going out with in grad school?” Ed asked. “I mean, you were engaged.”

Sloan smiled wistfully at the memory of the last time she’d had this conversation. “He didn’t make me feel like my life had purpose,” she repeated.

“Well, Tom sure comes with whole loads of purpose,” Ed commented dryly.

“Yeah, he does.” Sloan looked down at the metal encircling her wrists. “I wish we knew when we were getting there.”

* * *

 

Mark added a log to the fire and looked back over his shoulder into the tent. Tom lay on his bedroll, eyes closed, mustering every bit of energy toward healing. One of his opponents had cracked a couple of his ribs, and every cut, bruise, and tear was making itself felt. But he was aware of Mark’s gaze. “What is it?” he asked after a moment.

Mark picked up an orange and began peeling it. “I don’t like some of the things I’ve been hearing.”

Tom opened one eye and glanced over at the other man. “Yes?”

Mark looked troubled. “Some are saying that you shouldn’t have been allowed to compete.”

“Is anyone talking about stopping me?”

“Not that I’ve heard.” Mark threw the orange at Tom, who caught it neatly, and began peeling another. “Eat. You need the calories.”

Tom sat up carefully. “What else have you heard?” he asked around a mouthful of fruit.

Mark grimaced. “I’m not sure. But I think a few people are planning something. I don’t know what,” he said in answer to Tom’s exasperated look. “But there’s something going on, and you’re attracting a lot of attention.”

“So is everybody else who’s winning.” Tom turned his orange in his fingers. “But you keep listening, okay?”

Mark bit into his own orange. “All right.”

At midmorning the next day the word went around the camp. There were only twenty Chosen left, and all further bouts were to be decided by lottery. Tom and Mark were escorted, with the other nineteen and their helpers, to a raised dais of stone in the middle of the camp. Tom heard murmurs as he joined the row of Chosen on top of the dais, but there were murmurs for the others as well; most of them had factions behind them at this point. He was surprised, however, to see people slipping through the crowd to gather around Mark. Their faces were turned towards Tom, and some of them nodded. From Mark’s descriptions, he realized that these were the observers from the peace faction, at least some of them. They were choosing to support him.

 _Better late than never, I suppose._ Tom nodded gravely back, then turned his attention to those officiating.

Fifteen bouts, chosen by lottery, would leave five contenders, the crowd was told. Of the last five, four would pair off, with the odd one also being selected by lottery. The process would be repeated for the last three, and finally the last two would fight. The winner would, as was prophesied, lead the new species. By sundown, the process should be finished.

Half of Tom’s attention was turned to the officials as they began the lottery for the first ten bouts. The other half was turned inward, amazed that he had gotten this far, trying to prepare for the final effort. Sloan was ever in the back of his mind, but for a moment he brought her image forward, dwelling on her smile, her caring, the sharp, delightful mind of her. _For you,_ he promised silently. _For you, and all your kind, and the future._ Then his name was called, and he breathed deeply and focused on the fight.

* * *

 

The plane’s bumpy landing brought Sloan and Ed out of their uncomfortable sleep. Sloan straightened from where she had been leaning against Ed and rubbed at her bleary eyes. “Guess we’re here,” she said, trying to keep her courage up.

Ed yawned and stretched as best he could with the cuffs on. “Guess so,” he agreed. “I wonder where here is.”

The plane’s door opened, letting in strong afternoon sunlight and a blast of hot, dry air. The two scientists exchanged glances. They knew that desert smell.

Their captors hustled them out of the plane and into an uncovered jeep. As they were driven away into the hills surrounding the tiny runway, Sloan looked back to see sand-colored camouflage already being pulled over the plane. Within moments, it would be invisible from the air.

The trip was not long; both of them drew in their breaths when the jeep crested a hill and they saw the enormous camp spread out below them. “The convocation,” Ed muttered.

The woman in the passenger seat turned and glared at him. “No talking,” she said firmly.

At the edge of the huge encampment they were made to climb out of the jeep. Their cuffs were removed, but the folly of trying to escape was obvious. Ed whistled softly, looking around. They were surrounded by thousands of the new species, maybe more. And each one would be able to tell instantly that Ed and Sloan were not _Homo dominants_ , if they didn’t know already. Running would be absolutely futile.

“What’s he doing here?” one man asked their captors, pointing at Ed.

The woman shrugged. “He insisted on coming along.”

The man snorted. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Sloan and Ed exchanged glances. _That doesn’t sound good,_ Sloan thought.

The group that had brought them surrounded the two scientists. Slowly, they began escorting them through the crowd, toward the raised dais in the center. It was a strange journey. The two felt the hair on the back of their necks rise at the eeriness of it all--the crowds of people who looked human but weren’t, the low buzz of their oddly sweet-sounding language, the glances filled with the same confident power that Lewis and Lisa and even Lynch had displayed. The two of them were very out of place, and they knew it.

* * *

 

Sweat was stinging his eyes. So small a discomfort among all the others--it almost made Tom want to laugh. His training could only keep pain at bay for so long, and he was desperately tired. He was limping on a wrenched knee, and his left shoulder had been dislocated in his last bout. He’d won anyway, and Mark had been allowed to help him put it back in place, but it was still quite painful. And somehow, some way, he was one of only two left. He’d had to kill both his last two opponents.

He and the other, a burly man with a fanatic’s eyes, watched each other across the dais. This was not going to be easy, Tom realized with a chilly dismay. And this final bout would definitely be to the death.

 

Sloan and Ed were halted in front of the dais, far enough back that they could see the two men on top. Both were shirtless and shoeless, streaked with blood and sand. Sloan, squinting against the sun, felt her heart drop toward her stomach as she recognized the shorter one as Tom, and put a ruthless clamp on her emotions. The last thing Tom needed at this moment was a distraction.

Then, with the astonishing speed of the new species, the two men rushed toward one another. Sloan swallowed hard as they grappled, traded blows, and separated for a moment, all with the blurring speed that made them look impossible to human eyes. She made an involuntary sound as the bigger man drove his fist into Tom’s side; even over the low crowd noise she could hear the dull thud. Tom gasped and reeled back, and for an instant Sloan thought he would fall. His face was paper-white. But then he recovered his balance and leapt at the other man.

Suddenly Sloan’s arms were twisted behind her back. She staggered, but the man gripping her held her upright, and she looked back up at the dais. Tom was driving his opponent back with a series of kicks and punches that moved almost too quickly for her eyes to follow. The bigger man managed to roll away, but Tom pounced on him from behind and locked his arm around the other man’s neck, setting his hand to the side of his opponent’s head. Then Sloan felt something cold press against her temple.

 

Tom’s opponent, helpless in his grip, suddenly relaxed, and Tom paused, taken aback. “Look down, traitor,” the man murmured.

Alarmed, Tom peered over the sloping side of the dais. And saw them all at once: tall Ed guarded by one _Homo dominant_ , and another, slightly closer, holding Sloan. Holding a gun to her head.

“Give up,” his opponent whispered harshly. “Give in, or see her brains blown out in front of your eyes.”

Tom’s heart seemed to stop. He glanced quickly down at his opponent to see a slow smile spreading over the man’s face. Tom realized that calling the officials’ attention to the situation would only kill Sloan the faster.

He looked down at Sloan, whose hair caught the warm rays of the low sun and seemed to flame. She was looking steadily back at him, her eyes without fear. She spoke; he could not hear her over the murmur of the crowd, but it was easy for him to read her lips. _You know what to do, Tom._

He swallowed hard. _No. I can’t._

But she trusted him, he could see that. Trusted him, as she always had, to do the right thing. His own words rang in his ears. _“If I take the leadership, I’ll be able to dictate the policies. We would have peace, Sloan. Co-existence...”_

The man who held her jerked her a little closer, pushing the gun harder against her head. Her gaze never wavered, and she spoke again. _I believe in you_.

And he chose.

* * *

 

The whole thing was weird, but then Ed was getting more and more used to weird these days. He’d felt his captor’s grip loosen as the _Homo dominant_ became absorbed in the deadly combat, but Ed hadn’t done anything. What could he do, surrounded by tens of thousands of the new species? Except watch.

And then he’d seen Sloan’s captor step forward and put a gun to her head, seen the fight pause and Tom turn to look down. Ed couldn’t see Sloan’s face from where he stood, but he could see Tom’s. The smaller man had never been expressive, but Ed flinched now at the terrible despair that settled over Tom’s face. Ed heard Sloan’s words, and his breath caught in agony. But it was nothing, he knew, to what Tom must be feeling as he made his choice--went against all his newfound emotion and the yearning of the heart he’d only just learned he had--and broke his opponent’s neck with one brief push.

And Ed moved. Leaping away from his startled guard, he caught at the arm of Sloan’s captor as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger. Ed managed to deflect the gun from Sloan’s head, but his blow was only glancing. The bullet struck Sloan's torso instead of her temple. Her captor let her drop, and Ed followed her down, sick and frightened, only barely aware that the people who had kidnapped them were being surrounded and disarmed by others.

Tom was never able to remember how he got down to Sloan. One moment he was standing still, the next he was at her side. Some small part of his consciousness was still aware of his injuries, the deep ache of bruises, the grinding agony of his newly broken ribs--but it faded out of significance as his eyes filled with Sloan lying limply on the ground.

The sting of a hard landing on his knees never penetrated. Ed was holding a torn cloth against her side, swearing softly. There was so much blood, so bright, so thick--it smeared his own hands-- he could _smell_ it--

Her hands were in his, and his heart dropped another notch at their chill. Sloan smiled feebly up at him, bright hair dulled with dust, eyes already a little vague.

“Sloan,” he said harshly, his throat swelling. “ _Sloan_.”

Her eyes focused a bit and her fingers tightened weakly on his. “You won,” she whispered, and there was pride in her face as well as love.

He gripped her harder, trying to hold her attention. She was fading; he could all but see her life draining away. He swallowed, and forced words past the knifing fear.

“Sloan...Sloan, you have to fight. Sloan, _please_.”

Her eyes grew vague again. “Tired,” she managed, and he had to struggle for breath. Awareness drew in; there was nothing but the two of them and the bond between them. Tom pulled as hard as he could, willing all of his self to keeping her bound to her body, and to him.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, the words drawn from him almost involuntarily. “Please, Sloan. Don’t leave me alone.”

He lifted her hands to his face, pressed them to his cheeks, as she had done with his long ago in a busy cafe months before. Something caught in his chest, a pressure that neared unbearable as her eyes slid shut.

Rhythmic thunder filled the air.

 

Ray peered down through the helicopter’s window at the terrible sight below. “We may be too late,” he said, fear making his voice heavy.

“”You’re wrong,” Walter replied from the pilot’s seat, irony not quite hiding his own fear. “We’re the heroes. We’re just in time.”

 

Ed exclaimed in surprise as Ray leaned out of the descending helicopter and waved at them. “She might have a chance after all,” he shouted at Tom over the roar of the blades, hope surging. “If we can get her to a hospital--“

Tom, battered and bleeding, did not look up, even when the helicopter settled to the ground in a hastily vacated space. Ray jumped out and ran toward them, and Ed gestured wildly at him. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life,” he yelled. “Can you pick her up? I’ve got to keep pressure on this.”

He could hear Ray swearing as the older man crouched down beside the unconscious woman. “Tom,” Ed said, reaching with his free hand to grab Tom’s arm. “Tom, you have to let go of her so Ray can get her into the chopper. Tom!”

The smaller man finally relaxed his grip on Sloan’s hands, and Ray nudged him out of the way to scoop her up. “Come on, Tom,” Ed bellowed as they hastened toward the aircraft.

But Tom shook his head. “I have to stay,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t leave yet.” He followed them to the helicopter, his eyes never leaving Sloan. But as they lifted her in, Tom transferred his gaze to Ed, and took Ed’s free arm in a bruising grip. “You keep her safe for me,” he said, and Ed sucked in his breath at the burning in Tom’s eyes, the tears streaking his face.

“I will, man,” Ed answered, feeling like he was binding his own life into the promise. He wondered briefly if one of them should stay, but as the helicopter lifted away, he saw Mark coming up behind Tom and knew that the other man was not alone.

 

Tom watched the helicopter rise into the air. Something vital seemed to tear inside him as it disappeared over the hills, and he wondered in agony if he would know it if Sloan died. Then Mark was there, and others of the peace faction, and he realized that he had responsibilities. He had won the competition, and now he led _Homo dominant_. His people, whether he was a hybrid or not. It might have cost Sloan her life, and he the most precious thing he had ever found, but he had accomplished what he’d set out to do. He took a deep breath, caught it halfway at the pain in his side, and stepped into his new position.

* * *

 

It still hurt.

Every time Sloan drifted to the surface of consciousness, the pain was there, though it was not as bad as it had been. Still, she was reluctant to wake. She was afraid that Tom would still be gone.

This time, when she opened her eyes, her bed was tilted so she could see that the hospital room was dim with night. No one sat in the chair by her bed: not Walter, brusque and kind; not Ray, with his worried eyes and low voice; not even the omnipresent Ed, whose frantic voice she recalled hazily, though she couldn’t quite remember what he’d been saying, only that he’d used words he didn’t generally use in polite company.

 _Tom_. Her indrawn breath sparked fresh pain, but it also made her aware of the warmth wrapped around her hand.

Sloan turned her head carefully and let the air out again as the knot of fear dissolved. Tom was there. He had pulled a chair up to the other side of the bed and lowered the guard rail, and was sound asleep, one hand enveloping hers while his other arm pillowed his head on the bed.

One side of her mouth tilted up. She lifted her free hand, careful of the IV line, and ran it over his hair, wondering again at the softness and avoiding the neat bandage above his ear.

She heard him inhale, and let her hand follow as he lifted his head, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingers. His eyes searched hers, filled with the same apprehension that had held her a moment before.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she whispered, and smiled.

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, his hand coming up to press her palm to his face, and then opened them again. His mouth shaped her name silently, and the sudden streak glinting across his cheekbone made her own tears spill over. In the next instant he was sitting on the bed’s edge, holding her close--so very carefully--his face buried in her hair. She managed to get her arm around his waist, ignoring the upsurge of pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tom muttered, and his arms tightened. “Sloan--I let them hurt you--“

“No!” Sloan bit her lip against the pain in her side, and the pain in his voice. “Tom, no. You did the right thing.”

He shuddered. “Sloan, you almost died.”

She pulled back just a little, so she could see his face. Anguish marked lines there, and she wanted to smooth them away, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift her arm again. “But I didn’t.” A memory came clear in the back of her mind, a desperate voice calling her name, a pull that had never stopped. “You wouldn’t let me.”

Tom shook his head. “Sloan--“ He choked off the word and leaned forward, pressing a brief, hard kiss on her mouth before pulling her close again. For a long time they sat in silence, and Sloan laid her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow from the rapid pulse of stress to a calmer, soothing rhythm. Comforted, she relaxed back into sleep.

* * *

 

Ed could hear the ruckus the second the elevator doors opened. Someone was getting a royal scolding in rapid Spanish--and a loud one, which was unusual for such an exclusive hospital. As he loped toward Sloan’s private room, Ed wondered who had got the supervising nurse so riled.

 _I should have known._ Tom was standing just outside Sloan’s room, arms folded. As Ed neared, Tom interjected something in fluent Spanish and a low voice, which only seemed to make the tiny woman facing him angrier.

“Hey, it’s okay, he’s with me,” Ed said, taking a guess at the reason for the scolding. Tom shot him a glance of veiled entreaty as the nurse switched to English and started explaining visiting rules. “He can go in.”

It took a few minutes, but Ed eventually got the woman calmed down enough to leave them alone, though it took all his authority as a physician to do it. Finally the nurse stalked away, still grumbling, and Ed blew out his breath, turned to Tom, and held out a hand.

“It’s good to see you, man. Are you all right? You looked pretty messed up back there.”

Tom returned Ed’s grip firmly. “It’s good to see you, too.” Ed was surprised to see the pleasure in Tom’s face. “Thanks for the rescue.” He gestured in the direction of the retreating nurse.

“Hey, any time.” Ed eased Sloan’s door open and looked inside. She was asleep, and he was pleased to see that she looked better. “I guess you want to see her first.”

Tom shook his head, lips twitching. “Actually I was here most of the night, until they kicked me out.”

Ed had to laugh. “No wonder the nurse was so ticked off. Want to go get breakfast with me?”

Tom blinked. “Sure.”

Ed made a quick check of Sloan’s vital signs, being careful not to wake her, then rejoined Tom. He watched Tom move as they walked back down to the cafeteria, noting the stiffness in the other man’s movements, the limp in his walk, but said nothing until they found seats.

“You’re not all right,” he said straight out, setting down his tray.

Tom slid carefully into the seat opposite Ed’s. “I’m not seriously hurt.”

Ed raised a skeptical brow. “Oh yeah? And just where aren’t you seriously hurt?”

Tom sighed, and took a sip of orange juice. “Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a wrenched knee, and various cuts and lacerations.”

Ed spluttered into his coffee. “I’d hate to see what you consider serious! You should be in bed right next to Sloan!”

“You know better than that.” Tom gave him a warning look and began eating eggs.

Ed sighed. “I know, I know. And I’m sure that healing talent of yours will take care of things. But you should still get a professional to look at you.”

“Will you?” Tom grinned a little when Ed dropped his knife in surprise. “I trust you.”

“Well--sure.” Ed picked up the utensil, flattered. “After breakfast, then.”

He munched his way through a piece of toast, watching Tom in silence for a bit. “So--you won,” he said finally.

Tom nodded at his plate. “Yes,” he said softly, and something in the angle of his bent head made Ed decide not to ask for details.

“And they accepted you?”

Tom shrugged a little and picked up his coffee. “I won. A lot of them are not happy about being led by a traitor, but the...habit...of obedience is very strong. And the peace faction supports me.”

“You think it will work?” Ed took a bite of bacon.

“I’ll make it work,” Tom said, and though his voice was low, there was an undercurrent of fierceness in it that made Ed believe him. Tom stared at him through the faint steam rising from his cup. “There will be peace, Ed.”

“I believe you!” Ed said, and did. Tom’s intensity subsided a little, and they finished breakfast in a silence laced with the quiet companionship Ed was beginning to associate with the other man.

As soon as they finished breakfast, Ed beckoned to Tom. “C’mon. Let’s go to my office.”

Tom arched a brow, but followed obediently. “You have an office?”

“Visiting doctor’s privilege.” Ed led Tom back upstairs to the set of small rooms that had been allotted to him. “I have to share with Walter, but he’s not here this morning anyway. He and Ray are off talking to government officials or something.”

“Hmmm.” Tom sat down on the examining table and began removing his shirt--without being prompted, Ed noticed. Tom’s movements were stiff with pain, but Ed hesitated to help him; despite the dark-haired man’s affection with Sloan, he was still so reserved.

Tom dropped his shirt on the table, and Ed carefully unwound the bandage wrapped around his patient’s chest. He made sure to hide his personal reaction to the livid bruises and lacerations marring Tom’s skin, but was ruefully cognizant that Tom was aware of it anyway.

“Impressive,” he said in his best professional voice. “This definitely calls for an X-ray.” He palpated the swollen areas as gently as he could, though Tom did not so much as wince. “I can handle it myself,” he added casually, answering the unspoken objection.

“I would appreciate that,” Tom replied quietly.

“While I set that up...” Ed straightened from his examination. “Are you on any meds?”

“No.”

Ed rummaged in one cupboard for a moment, then slapped a small bottle into Tom’s hand. “Take two of these. You look worse than when you got back the last time.”

One side of Tom’s mouth lifted in a genuine smile at Ed’s glare, and he obediently opened the sample bottle. Before Ed could get him a cup of water from the office’s tiny sink, he had swallowed the capsules dry. “Last time they weren’t trying to kill me,” he pointed out equably.

Ed found that, again, Tom’s cuts and lacerations showed no signs of infection and were healing much faster than a human’s would. The old scar tissue from his incarceration that spring was vanishing, and Ed wondered if Tom’s skin would eventually show no mark at all.

The X-rays did not take long, and Tom was watching over Ed’s shoulder when the doctor examined the films.

“Three broken ribs,” and Ed traced the picture with his finger. “Two cracked ones. I’ll get you a wrap.” He ignored Tom’s sigh. “And here--“ he gestured at the film of Tom’s shoulder-- “some swelling, but it’s doing pretty well. Whoever put that back in for you knew what they were doing.”

He pulled down the films and switched off the viewer light. “I still think that gash on your head needs more attention.”

Tom touched the bandage absently. “It’s all right.”

Ed snorted, but held his peace, and fetched the strapping. After he had braced Tom’s ribcage, he glanced at his watch. “Want to go see if Sloan’s awake?”

Tom gave him a small grin as he pulled on his shirt. “Do you have to ask?”

They made their way back to Sloan’s private room. The shift had changed, and the nurses recognized Ed and let them pass without question.

“Ed.”

The doctor paused with his hand on Sloan’s door, a bit taken aback at Tom’s intense tone. “What?”

“You saved her.” He saw Tom’s throat move as the shorter man swallowed. “Thank you.”

It never crossed Ed’s mind to say that he hadn’t struggled and sworn and prayed over Sloan’s still form just for Tom’s sake. Glib, offhand words balanced on his tongue, and he discarded them. Only one response seemed appropriate.

Tom blinked, completely taken aback when the lanky scientist stepped away from the door and enveloped him in a careful hug. He returned the embrace tentatively, warmed all over again by this evidence of Ed’s caring.

“I’m glad you’re okay too,” Ed mumbled, his voice rough, and let Tom go.

As he watched Ed step back, he could tell that the doctor was embarrassed, though Tom couldn’t fathom why. It didn’t matter.

“You’d better take care of her,” Ed warned, putting on a rather ineffective glare.

“Or I’ll have to deal with her big brother?” Tom asked, with a sudden insight into human behavior, and was amused at Ed’s grin. “You know I will, Ed.”

“Good. You know...” Ed glanced at the door to Sloan’s room and lowered his voice.

Tom listened intently to Ed’s murmured explanation, then cocked a brow at the scientist. “She’ll expect this?”

“On some level, yeah. Women always do. I know it’s probably not in your species’ repertoire, but...”

“But ceremony is.” Tom nodded. “It seems appropriate.”

Ed nodded in return and pushed the door open.

Sloan was awake, half-sitting up in the tilted bed, and Ed was pleased beyond measure to see more color in her cheeks. “Morning, beautiful,” he said, and held the door open for Tom.

Ed didn’t miss the way her eyes lit at the sight of Tom, but the smile that followed was directed at him, and he treasured it, still painfully aware of how terrifyingly close he had come to losing his best friend.

“Hey, my two favorite guys,” she said, her voice weak but her smile brilliant.

Tom said nothing, only walked over and took her hand, but the tenderness on his face was obvious, at least for him. Ed grinned and pulled his stethoscope from a pocket. “Let’s see how you’re doing today.”

Her vital signs, again, were as good as could be expected. Ed looked at Sloan’s IV and chart, noting with approval that all the appropriate checks had been made that morning. “I’ll be back in an hour or so for your checkup,” he told Sloan, walking backward toward the door. “And Tom, I’m going to send somebody by with a security badge for you. Can’t have heads of state getting kicked out of hospital rooms, after all.”

He flashed the wide-eyed Tom another grin and shut the door behind himself. _Let ‘em have a little time together._

“How are you?” Tom asked quietly, taking the chair nearest the bed.

Sloan gave him a tired smile. “Can’t you tell?”

His fingers tightened on hers. “Sloan, I’m serious.”

“I’m better. Still really tired, though.” She gestured vaguely at the IV. “I think it’s the drugs.” She shifted a little to look at him more directly. “What happened out there, Tom?”

He hesitated out of habit, though there was no longer any reason not to tell her. “What do you want to know?”

She smiled again, a little blurry with the medication, but with that eternal curiosity beneath. He was relieved to see it. “Everything. Tell me everything.”

So he started at the beginning, after he and Mark had left. And by the time he got to their first sight of the huge camp, she was asleep.

He smiled a little. His own body clamored for sleep--he’d had little chance for rest since the convocation. The past couple of days had been spent solidifying his position and preparing overtures for the governments of Mexico and the United States, as well as for the U.N. It had been very difficult to stay away from Sloan, even though he’d sent a messenger to find out whether she had pulled through. And he’d been awake most of the previous night, watching her sleep. But he would not rest yet. Instead he thought about the morning’s events.

Tom had expected Ed to be furious, even hating, over what had happened to Sloan. But instead the scientist was cheerful and welcoming, and Tom knew he had not mistaken that flash of relief from Ed when they’d met that morning.

Ed had been _worried_ about him.

Tom knew that fact would take some careful thinking to absorb. Sloan’s affection--Tom never took it for granted, ever, but in a sense he had come to expect it. He’d never expected anyone else to care. Certainly Ed had been concerned about Tom when he’d returned from captivity that spring, but Tom had attributed it to Ed’s guilt over the DNA serum. He’d never thought Ed could care so much about him.

About an hour later an orderly arrived with a security pass and a message that someone was waiting for Tom at the front desk.

It was Karl, looking as fierce as the last time Tom had seen him in Alaska, and distinctly uncomfortable. Tom nodded to him. “Mark found you.”

Karl gave him a long look, laced with bewilderment and a hint of hostility. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a man of honor.” Tom gestured at the lobby. “We can talk over there.”

They settled in one plushy corner, far from the other people waiting in the area. Karl raised his brows, looking at Tom expectantly.

“Mark and the peace faction are acting as my administrators for the moment,” Tom explained. “But I need a liaison, both between me and our people when I’m not available, and between me and the war faction. You,” he pointed at the taller man, “are a loyal and trusted member of the war faction. You’re exactly what I need.” He regarded the other man with a level gaze. “Will you accept the position?”

Karl was silent so long that Tom began to wonder if the other man would ever answer. But finally he nodded. “I don’t like your loyalties. But I believe that you are doing what you think best.” He shrugged. “I accept.”

* * *

It was a unique experience, Ray thought with amusement, to walk into a hospital room and find out that it was the informal seat of a government. Two days had passed since Tom had shown up, and Sloan was getting stronger. She was still in bed, but was holding an intense conversation with a woman Ray had never seen before but who he guessed was a _Homo dominant_. Tom talked quietly in a corner with Mark, Walter, and a tall, fierce-looking man. Near the door, Ed fiddled with his stethoscope as he listened to an ancient woman who leaned on a carved cane.

“Well.” Ray surveyed the room, pleased. “Looks like I’m out of a job again.”

Tom looked up. “Not necessarily.” He motioned Ray back towards the hall. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Ray felt his brows go up. “Sure.”

He followed Tom through the door, noting the new purpose in the younger man’s movements, and approving of it. “What’s up?”

“Remember what you said about the new species’ differences seeming more psychological than genetic to you?”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“You were right.” Tom cocked his head to one side, and Ray could swear he saw a glint of humor there. “I need an advisor. Want the job?”

 

Ed finally shooed all the people out of Sloan’s room, telling them to take their meetings elsewhere, and Sloan fought back laughter at the sight of her best friend herding diplomats like they were stray chickens. But a few minutes later Tom slipped back in, and Sloan was pleased. There was something she wanted to talk to him about, and a crowd was no place to do it.

“What is it?” Tom asked, settling next to her on the bed.

“I’ve been talking to one of your new advisors,” she replied. “Tom, she says they can restore your memories.”

Tom sighed. He’d been struggling with that very issue. “I know.”

“Then why won’t you let them?” Sloan was wide-eyed with surprise.

“There’s a danger, Sloan.” He took her hand, searching for words. “They say it might change me.”

Her fingers were cool and soft in his. “Change you how?”

He swallowed. “I was chosen to be a chameleon when I was eleven.” He could feel the anger and pain she experienced whenever she thought of his childhood, but he ignored it. “Before that, I was raised like any other child of our species. Taught to be obedient, loyal...taught that the survival of our species was more important than my life, than anyone’s life. The chameleon training reinforced that.”

He kept his grip on her hand, and as he’d hoped, she worked it out for herself. “So...they think that giving you back those memories might change your mind about humans.”

“About everything.” He lifted his other hand to smooth her cheek. “About you. I can’t risk it, Sloan. It’s too dangerous.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Tom,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He brushed away the moisture on her face. “What I have is more important than those memories.”

* * *

 

It was a week before Ed and Walter declared Sloan well enough to go home. Once again a gurney was loaded onto a luxurious small plane, but this time the patient was Sloan and the pilots were _Homo dominant_. Sloan put up with the fuss, feeling a bit silly, but she didn’t have much energy yet and preferred not to waste it on arguments she was likely to lose anyway. Tom followed her onto the plane and watched as her gurney was secured, then bent to kiss her. “I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

Sloan caught at his hand, reluctant to let him go even though this was what they had all wanted. “Tell the feds that if they give you any more trouble about setting up your headquarters in California, I’ll go to Washington and give them a piece of my mind.”

Tom didn’t smile, but his warm grip tightened. “I’ll do that,” he replied, and stepped away. Sloan craned her neck to watch him go, ignoring the twinges of pain. Already the engines were beginning to hum awake.

Ed was the last on board, waving goodbye to the elder he’d been talking to all week. Tom had introduced them, saying that they had much in common, and Ed had found the old woman a treasure trove of information on the new species’ immunities and practice of medicine. Walter bolted the door behind them and went up to the cockpit to speak to the pilots, and Ed headed back toward Sloan. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she answered, a bit impatient. “Why couldn’t I have a wheelchair? It’s not like I haven’t been using one for two days.”

Ed grinned down at her. “It’s more comfortable this way, trust me. It’s a long trip, and I don’t want you trying to sleep sitting up.”

Sloan sighed. “Okay, okay.”

The plane began to taxi, and Ed moved forward to strap himself in. Sloan stared at the ceiling and thought about the past week, which had whirled around her in a dizzying fashion that she could not attribute entirely to painkillers.

After months of fear and stress, the threats were abruptly gone. Tom, Mark, Karl, and Helen--the third of Tom’s _Homo dominant_ advisors--believed that there might be trouble from a small number of disaffected _Homo dominants_ ; hence these particular pilots. But the danger was considered small. Walter’s erstwhile agency had been disbanded, what was left of it, and Walter and Ray were no longer fugitives. Nor was Tom.

A tentative balance had been achieved. Most of the world had no idea as yet that the new species even existed, let alone that it had planned the extinction of _Homo sapiens_. Both the U.S. government and the U.N. professed relief that war had been averted, at least for the moment. The four of them--five, if one included Mark--had succeeded beyond their wildest hopes. Ray had gone back to the Virgin Islands to bring his family home; Tom would hopefully follow Walter, Ed, and Sloan back to California. The new leader of _Homo dominant_ had made no secret of the fact that where Sloan was, would be the headquarters of the new species.

But the balance was both fragile and volatile. Despite the various governmental statements, many people in power were terrified of the prospects that the new species presented, both politically and biologically. _Homo dominant_ would have to find its own place in a world already overburdened with bigotry and fear of the other. Keeping the peace seemed an impossible task.

 _But then, we’ve already achieved the impossible. Several times._ Sloan grinned to herself, firmly repressing worry. Now was not the time to fear. Now was the time to hope.

 _Anne would be pleased._ The thought crossed Sloan’s mind as she settled back into the pillows. _Skeptical, but pleased._

* * *

 

“So has he called today?” Ed asked, giving Sloan a hand out of her chair.

“Twice.” Sloan released his hand, straightening cautiously. Three weeks after being shot, her side was healing nicely, but some movements still required care. “So did Mark.” She gestured him out of her office, dodging the “Welcome Back” balloons. “Something about a surprise.”

“Yeah, he called me too. Said to meet him in the lab garage.” He stopped and glanced back at Sloan, his expression comical. “Wait a minute. Mark? A surprise? Have we got the right guy?”

Sloan chuckled, and waved to Walter as they passed his office. He waved back absently, deep in conversation with a couple of techs.

“You doing okay?” Ed asked, holding the lab door open for her. Sloan stuck her hands in her lab coat pockets and glared at him.

“I’m fine, Ed. Trust me. If I have any problems I’ll tell you.” She looked up, shaking her head at the concern behind the grin on his face, and stopped walking. When Ed stopped too, she leaned forward and hugged him.

“Don’t worry so much,” she murmured. “You do good work.”

Ed’s arms closed carefully around her, and she heard him sigh. “We came so close to losing you, Sloan. It scared me. A lot.”

“I’m still here.” She held on tight. She had been scared, too, and underneath she still was, a little. She hadn’t seen Tom for three weeks, though she talked to him every day on the phone. It was hard to settle back into routine. All their lives had been turned upside down and shaken, and now they were putting the pieces back together, and finding some unexpected new shapes. Some of those shapes had sharp edges.

After a moment they parted and went on toward the garage. Ed went through the door first, peering warily around for reporters. Campus security could keep them out of the lab, but they did tend to turn up in other places. But the garage seemed deserted.

“All clear.” He frowned as Sloan joined him. “Where’s Mark?”

Before she could answer, a rattling roar filled the garage. Ed’s head snapped up, and his jaw dropped as his Volkswagen van appeared around the corner, a familiar dark figure at the wheel. Mark pulled the van to a stop in front of the scientists, and silence fell abruptly as he shut off the ignition.

“You found her!” Ed’s grin was so wide, Sloan thought with amusement, that it was a wonder the top of his head didn’t fall off. He ran his hands lovingly over the van’s battered front as Mark climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“It wasn’t hard.” The _Homo dominant_ handed Ed the keys, and Sloan, surprised, saw a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “We’re happy to return it to you.”

Ed gripped Mark’s hand in a quick, hard shake. “Thanks, man!” The other man seemed a little taken aback, but not displeased. Then Ed was in the driver’s seat, all but hugging the wide steering wheel. “C’mon, Sloan. Let’s go!”

Sloan opened her mouth to point out that they were expected back in the lab, then closed it again. She hadn’t seen Ed so happy in months.

He reached over to unlock the passenger door for her, and she climbed in cautiously. “Do you need a ride, Mark?” Ed shouted over the renewed roar of the engine.

The other man shook his head, his expression neutral again, but Sloan still had the feeling that he was pleased. Sloan waved to him as Ed pulled away, then fastened her seatbelt and fished her cell phone out of her pocket. “I’d better tell Walter we won’t be back for a while.”

* * *

 

_Further excerpts from the private journal of a mad scientist_

_Until now, the theory was that_ Homo dominant _was produced through a random mutation, possibly caused by environmental changes such as global warming. But the species’ history indicates that the first gathering of_ Homo dominant _consisted of people from different areas and ancestries. The likelihood of different groups all having the same mutation at once without a common ancestor is so small as to be nearly nonexistent._

 _In addition, a_ Homo dominant _and_ Homo sapiens _cross always produces a_ Homo dominant _child--contrary to accepted scientific thought, which states that such offspring should be hybrids._

 _Our lab is now working on a new theory, one suggested by data obtained from_ Homo dominant _scientists. It may be that the_ Homo dominant _mutation is triggered by a normally dormant portion of_ Homo sapiens _DNA. Those environmental changes may be what cause the dormant genome to activate. The scientific and political implications of such a finding are considerable._

_Personal addendum: Tom, however, is still a puzzle._

* * *

 

It was dark by the time Sloan climbed the stairs to her apartment. She was tired, but in a good way; they had made some real progress on a major project, once she’d convinced Ed to return to the lab. Still, she felt empty.

 _I miss you, Tom,_ she thought, pulling her keys from her purse. She’d spoken to him just that afternoon, but he’d given her no hint of when he might be able to join her, and she hesitated to ask. He had changed so much during that whirlwind week, going from someone abandoned and hunted by his own people to becoming their leader, from someone with no purpose in life other than protecting her to someone responsible for hundreds of thousands of lives.

And she was so proud of him. He had proved himself completely capable of handling the burdens, worthy of the trust placed in him, however reluctantly it was done. He wielded more power than any other sentient being on the planet, and the pressure would be crushing, but he went ahead without hesitation.

In a sense, he’d done it all for her. But his victory--their victory--might pull them apart in the end. Sloan couldn’t see how he found time to breathe, let alone call her every day. How would it be when he came back? _If he comes back,_ whispered a cold doubt. She understood Tom very well now. The one thing that could supercede his devotion to her was his devotion to his new duty. _And I wouldn’t have it any other way_ , she thought sturdily. _He wouldn’t be Tom if he didn’t feel that way._

Sloan bit her lip, staring at the keys in her hand and blinking back tears determinedly. _Enough moping._ She unlocked her door and pushed it open, turning to flip on the light and punch in the security code before shutting the door.

He was there when she turned back, sitting in an armchair and watching her, this time with that tiny smile rather than a hard look of accusation. She let her bag drop from strengthless fingers, scarcely believing her own eyes. Then he stood up, and an instant later they were in each others’ arms, both of them trembling.

It was a long time before Sloan raised her head from his shoulder. “I thought you’d never get here,” she whispered. Tom’s sweater was damp from the tears she thought she’d banished, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Tom raised one hand to brush unruly hair from her eyes, his expression tender and his other arm still wrapped firmly around her. “I’m here now.” The warmth in his voice scattered her doubts, and she was smiling when their mouths met.

* * *

 

He was where he belonged.

Tom stretched a bit, feeling the slide of cotton against his skin, then relaxed as Sloan, still asleep, curled closer. He pulled the comforter up, not wanting to lose the warmth. It would be dawn soon, but it was a Saturday, and he had made sure that they both would get a day off. The next months would be very busy.

His sharp vision picked out a gleam of light from the ring on Sloan’s finger, and he blessed Ed silently for the idea. Her expression--and her emotions--when he’d suggested they get married had been indescribably precious to him. Then he had innocently explained that he had to be next of kin to be able to visit her if she was ever in the hospital again, and she had nearly smacked him before she realized he was teasing.

His own species did form pair bonds, he’d discovered, though they were rare. But not even their lack would not have stopped him from formalizing this one. He was unique, and he would make his own decisions.

Sloan stirred and uncurled, blinking up at him. “Why are you awake?” she said, her voice husky with sleep.

He smiled into the darkness as she pulled him down next to her. “Just thinking.”

She chuckled, and he amended his thought. _We will make our own decisions._

It was dark, but he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.


	5. Epilogue

“Well, is there any way you can find out?” Sloan said into the phone, tipping her chair back so she could look down the corridor. No one was coming. “I mean, there have to be some kind of records...”

She listened. “Uh-huh. Yeah... Well, put it down to human eccentricity. No! No, don’t do that. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

She leaned forward again, letting the front legs of the chair touch the ground. “That’s great. Thanks. I really appreciate it. You should come! I’ll let you know when.... Goodbye.”

She hung up the phone and smiled, then jumped as Tom spoke behind her. “Who was that?”

Sloan spun around, one hand at her throat. “Tom! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry.” He didn’t look very apologetic.

Sloan hastily folded up the square of paper sitting on her desk, trying to be casual about it. “I was just trying to get some information for a project I’m working on. Are you ready to go?”

Tom gave her a long look. She was up to something. The over-bright smile would have tipped him off at once, even if he hadn’t been able to hear her side of the conversation before he even stepped into the laboratory corridor. But when he extended his senses, he found no hint of fear or worry in her--just suppressed excitement. Nevertheless, he decided not to mention the fact that he’d overheard her. “Sure,” he said, and held open the office door so she could go through. “What do you want for lunch?”

* * *

 

They returned to the lab a couple of hours later. “It looks like things are settling down,” Sloan said hopefully as they walked into the building. “I mean, aside from that incident last week in the park.”

Tom shrugged. “Maybe.” He paced her down the corridor. Whitney University had been pleased to restore its notorious researchers to their former positions last autumn, and the publicity had in fact been good for funding, oddly enough. But it seemed to him that Sloan was finding it a little difficult to settle back down into her former position. Certainly enough had happened to change anyone; but he wondered if he shouldn’t spend a little more time with her to make sure she was all right. His own life had gone so abruptly from nothing to one of tremendous responsibility, and he couldn’t be with Sloan as often as he liked just yet. His leadership of the Homo dominant species frequently took him away to deal with various matters, and even when he was home, his workload was tremendous.

It was true, too, that sometimes he felt a little alone, even with Sloan. Try as he might to understand human feelings and behavior, part of him was, and probably always would be, different. Sloan accepted him for all that he was, and Ed offered as much friendship as Tom could handle; but there were still times when he felt an outsider, as though his relationship with Sloan was his only reason for acceptance in the human world. It wasn’t true, he knew that, but that did not stop the feeling.

The lab was filled with a deep whir that washed over them as they entered. Ed was running the big centrifuge, and he waved at them. “You got a phone call,” he shouted at Sloan over the noise.

“Who was it?” Sloan shouted back, walking toward him. Ed’s eyes flicked toward Tom and away again, and he said something to Sloan as she neared, something Tom couldn’t quite make out. But the back of his neck began to prickle.

Sloan nodded. “Great,” she said loudly. “Thanks!”

Tom followed her as she headed back toward her office. “What was that about?” he asked, leaning close so she could hear him. Her sweet scent washed up around him and he breathed deeply, almost automatically.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” Sloan said, switching her sweater for a lab coat as they passed the coat rack. “Ed thinks he may be close to a breakthrough.”

A small drop of cold began to form in Tom’s stomach. There was no way to prove it, but he knew somehow that she was lying.

* * *

 

He wondered, later, if Sloan realized how much of their apartment was visible from the street when the blinds were open. He stood in shadows, looking up at the bright oblong, and watched her move about. She had the phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder, and she was gesturing with one hand, never mind that the person on the other end of the line could not see her. That tumble of curls shimmered in the warm light, and he caught the flash of her open smile. It amazed him, sometimes, how good that smile could make him feel when it was directed at him--and how often he felt a little jealous when she directed it at someone else.

What was she doing? There was some secret between her and Ed; they could not hope to hide it from him. He took a deep breath and let it out again, calming himself. He trusted them both, trusted them as he did no one else; they did not mean harm. But the secret was still there, and he realized that what he was feeling was hurt. They were keeping something from him, something that concerned him, and that caused him pain.

Then Sloan walked toward the window, still talking, and closed the blinds against the darkening sky. Tom sighed, feeling alone, but he knew she was only a flight of stairs away. He headed toward them.

* * *

 

Sloan hung up the phone mere seconds before the door opened. At the sound of the key in the lock, she turned toward it with a smile, full of anticipation.

Tom slipped inside and closed the door behind him, and Sloan took a moment to appreciate the sheer subtle beauty of him. Dark from his hair to his shoes--the habit of being unobtrusive had never left him--he was nevertheless possessed of grace and leashed strength, and she loved to look at him.

But he did not return her smile, and she wondered if he was in one of his rare irritable moods. Sometimes, she believed, he just got fed up with human excess and illogic; Sloan had tried to convince him that everybody felt that way on occasion, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, and walked over to give him a kiss. He returned it willingly, but when he took off his jacket and hung it up, she could tell by the stiffness of his shoulders that something was definitely bothering him.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as he turned around.

Tom gave her a long look, obviously undecided as to whether to tell her. Sometimes, she knew, he was caught between unfamiliarity with human relationships and his own difficulty expressing the feelings he was brought up to not have. But finally he spoke. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Sloan blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to catch on quite this soon. “What makes you say that?” she asked feebly.

“Sloan....” he said warningly, giving her that stern look that said that he knew quite well that she was prevaricating. Sloan sighed.

“You’re right,” she said, turning away toward the kitchen. “I am.”

“Both of you are,” Tom corrected as Sloan opened a cupboard and took down her teapot. “You and Ed.”

Sloan let out a breath of laughter and shook her head. _What made me think we could get away with this without him noticing?_ Setting the teapot down, she dropped three teabags into it and grabbed her kettle. “You’re no fun,” she complained mildly as she filled the kettle with water. “What good is a surprise if you keep guessing?”

“Surprise?” Tom frowned and sat on one of the kitchen stools. “I don’t understand.”

Sloan put the kettle on to boil and sat down opposite him. “You’re not supposed to. Tom, you trust us, don’t you? Trust me?”

The frown deepened. “Of course I do.”

Sloan reached out to cover his hand with hers. “Then trust me on this. I’m not going to tell you what we’re doing, but you’ll find out pretty soon. And I think you’ll like it.” She looked into his wary eyes, willing him to accept, if not to understand.

Tom’s mouth tightened a bit in frustration. Even now, there were still so many things about humanity that he did not comprehend. Looking at Sloan, reaching out to sense what she was feeling, he found concern for him, suppressed excitement, an indefinable hope; underlying them all was the constant, life-giving flow of her love for him. “All right,” he said finally.

Sloan gave him a brilliant smile, and his own lips curved in response. He’d made the decision to trust her, but it did not entirely quell the suspicion in him. Sloan let him go and reached for mugs. “You’ve been working too hard,” she said, obviously trying for a lighter topic.

He stood up, deciding suddenly that he wanted to feel closer yet. If he wasn’t to know what was going on, at least he would be assured again that she was his as much as he was hers. “So have you,” he replied, moving around the island and reaching past her to shut off the burner. “Leave that.”

He took the mugs from her and set them on the counter, then slid his hands into her hair and leaned down to cover her mouth with his own. To his delight, she responded happily, her arms going around him and her body curving to fit against his. Without effort, or a pause in the kiss, he lifted her off her feet. She gave a muffled laugh--his strength never failed to enchant her--and linked her hands behind his neck. It was only a few short steps to their bedroom and the confirmation that he sought, and they never did get back to the tea.

* * *

 

As the week went on, Tom noticed several little things that kept him aware of Sloan’s and Ed’s secret. A phone conversation hastily finished when he entered a room; a closet in the lab locked when it had been open before; an errand Sloan wanted to run alone, without his company when offered, something she’d never done before. It made him nervous; but after talking with Sloan he kept his nerves in check. And in truth, when he reached out to sense Ed’s emotions, or Walter’s--the older man was obviously in on the secret as well--there was that same suppressed, almost lighthearted anticipation. Whatever they were working on was meant to be pleasant, he eventually decided, and tried not to worry. He had his own work to keep him busy most days anyway, and it was a good distraction.

* * *

 

Friday afternoon arrived. Sloan had told him that Ed and Walter were coming over for dinner that evening, but she was not in her office at the lab when he arrived there. In fact, there were few people about, and those who were there were mostly personnel he did not know well. Slightly alarmed, he was about to call the apartment when Walter loomed up in the office doorway.

“Ah, there you are, Tom,” the scientist said. “Sloan said you’d be getting here about now.”

“Where is she?” Tom asked, puzzled. Generally she let him know where she was going to be.

“Oh, she went home early to start dinner.” As though on cue, Tom’s cell phone rang; when he answered, it was Sloan.

“Where are you?” Tom demanded.

“At the apartment,” she replied blithely. “I had some stuff to do before dinner. Can you give Walter a lift? His car’s not working.”

Something about this did not ring true to Tom, but he let it go. “All right. We’ll be there soon.”

“Great!” And she was gone.

Frowning, Tom put his phone away. “You’re coming with me?” he queried.

Walter smiled beneficently. “Very kind of you.”

Thoroughly confused and somewhat suspicious, Tom gestured the older man toward the corridor.

It was dark by the time they reached the apartment building, and Tom noted that Sloan had the curtains shut again. Walter followed him up the stairs, talking about some experiment at the lab, and Tom did his best to listen, but he was distracted by the oddness of this arrangement. He made an acknowledging sound as he unlocked the door, and was suddenly struck by a wave of anticipation coming from the apartment. But the door swung open before he could analyze it, and Walter’s hand on his back propelled him suddenly, if carefully, into the room.

_“Surprise!!”_

The near half of the apartment was all but filled. Ray, Grace, their son Matt; Shane, half-enveloped in a Stanford U. sweatshirt; Mark and Helen, looking almost as puzzled as Tom felt; various personnel from the lab, smiling and laughing; and Sloan and Ed standing in the middle, grinning at him like a pair of tricksters. Balloons and streamers festooned the ceiling, and the coffee table held a pile of brightly-wrapped packages. Walter was chuckling behind him as the scientist shut the door.

Stunned, Tom could only stand and stare. Sloan came forward and took his hand. “It’s your birthday, Tom,” she said gently. “And we wanted to throw you a party.”

He blinked, completely overwhelmed. “My birthday?” He hadn’t known when it was; it wasn’t considered necessary information for chameleons. And while he knew Sloan’s and Ed’s birth dates were important to them, he had never really thought about his own. “But...why?”

“Any excuse for a party,” Ed teased, but then shrugged, still grinning. “You gotta celebrate your own existence.”

“That’s why we do this,” Sloan added. “We celebrate each other.”

“And...and you’re celebrating mine?” Tom asked, still not sure.

Sloan leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “We all are.”

Tom looked around at the people gathered there; most of them were smiling, and their emotions soaked him in affection and happiness. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t realized that they cared so much about him. “So, um...” he managed, “what do we do?”

Sloan eyes crinkled happily with her grin, and he had to return it. “Well, to begin with,” she said, “there’s this cake....”

* * *

 

It was late when Ed took Walter back to the lab to pick up his “malfunctioning” car. Sloan shut the door behind them and turned to survey the messy room happily. Once Tom had gotten used to the idea of a party all for him, he had enjoyed himself, though with the air of someone experiencing something new--which, of course, he was. Sloan scooped up a half-empty glass. _We should have done something like this sooner...though there hasn’t really been time until now._ Until very recently, most of Tom’s time had been taken by his responsibilities as the leader of _Homo dominant._ The look on Tom’s face when he realized that the assembly was for _him_ \--the memory still put a lump in her throat. He was so affectionate with her, in his own quiet way, that she sometimes forgot how unused he was to the caring of others.

She smiled as Tom came out of the bathroom and picked up one of the gifts he’d received, most of which were piled on the bed. Ed had promised to teach Tom how to throw the Frisbee, but Tom still looked bemused at the idea.

Tom turned the plastic disk over in his hands. He’d identified Matt’s gift as soon as he’d opened it, but it had never occurred to him that he could actually become one of the throngs of people he saw in the park hurling the toys back and forth. “Maybe we should get a dog to go along with this,” he murmured, remembering the black-and-white canine he’d seen leaping to catch a blue Frisbee.

Sloan laughed, and he looked up and smiled as she walked toward him. “Not in this apartment,” she said.

Tom sat down on the bed and set the Frisbee aside, next to the leather jacket that was Sloan’s gift. Sloan’s smile disappeared, and he could feel her hesitating over something. “What is it?” he asked, reaching out to tug her down next to him.

“Tom--“ she said hesitantly. “You’re not upset about this, are you? I mean, we did have to keep it a secret and--“

“Shhh.” He laid two gentle fingers across her mouth. “No. It was wonderful. Sloan...I never knew how much they cared.”

She took his muffling hand in hers. “But couldn’t you tell?”

He shook his head. “I pick up things day-to-day, but not the underlying feelings, not all at once like that. It was...” He trailed off. Her eyes were shimmering, and he gave up explanations in favor of kissing her, trying to show her how much it all meant to him.

A long, sweet moment later, they broke apart, laughing a little. Tom reached back on the bed and brought out the flat box that held Ed’s gift to him. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

Sloan giggled as he lifted the lid again. Nestled in tissue paper were three pairs of extremely loud boxer shorts--just the sort of thing Ed wore. A card sat on top of one. _Something to loosen you up a little,_ it read.

“Wear ‘em, I guess,” Sloan said, and broke up laughing again at Tom’s exasperated look. He fitted the lid carefully back on the box and set it aside, and then with the incredible speed he so rarely displayed, he pinned Sloan on her back on the bed. “You’re impossible,” he said in mock anger, sliding his hands under her shirt.

“So are you,” she returned, then shrieked. “Tom! Don’t you dare start tickling me! _Tom!_ ”

He stopped when she started to get red in the face, rolling out of the way of her mock punch. She let the last of her laughter run down, taking deep breaths to calm herself, then propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. “One of these days I’m going to find out if you’re ticklish or not.”

He raised a brow, ruining his arch look with a grin. “You can try.” Sobering, he slid back over to her and placed a soft, solemn kiss on her lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Sloan reached up and caressed his cheek lovingly. “For the jacket?”

“For everything,” Tom answered, and demonstrated.

 


End file.
